


Lonely Road

by CranApplePye



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Beating, Blow Jobs, Captivity, College Student Stiles, Derek Takes Care Of Stiles, Electrocution, First Time, Hurt Derek, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Injury, Interrogation, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Marathon Sex, Masturbation, Mechanic Derek, Mentions of past dub-con, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Bondage, Nudity, On the Run, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Protective Derek, Protective Stiles, Questioning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Romance, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Sex, Slow Burn, Stiles Takes Care Of Derek, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Trauma, Treating Wounds, Whump, brave stiles, but only a very little bit, emotionally devastated derek, everyone is human, i just want to hug everybody right now, in a torture context, minor accidental breath play, no actual rape, past abusive relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 168,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CranApplePye/pseuds/CranApplePye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is running from things he doesn't want to face.  Derek is running from a past he cannot leave behind. Their paths collide on a lonely stretch of road when Stiles' car breaks down and Derek is the only mechanic on hand. An unexpected closeness develops, but both men are harboring secrets and Stiles may have just found the one person whose luck runs worse than his own. When the past catches up with the future, it may be one collision that neither of them can survive, and it may end up pulling everyone they love down with them. </p><p>As everything begins to unravel, choices must be made. Stiles must decide how far he's able to go to protect the people he cares about, and what he'll do when he hits his breaking point. Derek must decide whether he can overcome a lifetime of betrayal enough to trust in someone again, and what he's willing to sacrifice if he is. And Scott and Allison must decide what it means to stand by your friends, and what price they are each willing to pay to do what is right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as nothing more than a passing idea to go with a gifset I made ([here](http://inderlander.tumblr.com/post/94651508436)). THEN I couldn't shake it and it demanded to be written. :)
> 
> This is a complete AU and although some things will carry over from canon and be similar, others may be completely different. Everyone is human in this, there is no supernatural. All geography, land marks, cities, roads, universities and so on are completely fictitious.
> 
> Stiles is 19 and Derek is 21.

Heat rose in waves from the single strip of bleached blacktop as it wound its tortuous route amongst the dusty, sloping landscape.  The rolling hills were colored with scrub growth separated in hue from the pale dust of the earth by only the barest variations of green and dotted here and there with the darker shades of low, bushy pines. The sky was almost painfully blue and the intense noon day sun painted everything in harsh, barely shadowed relief. There weren't any vultures circling overhead to complete the sense of western cliché which the desolately picturesque scene brought to mind, but Stiles Stilinski assumed that was only a matter of time, given the way things had been going thus far.

"Oh come on... come on!" Stiles coaxed his unresponsive jeep in frustration. The ancient blue vehicle was coated in dust as if trying to blend into the rocks about them.  It was certainly being about as useful as a rock at the moment.  Stiles hissed, sun-warmed metal all but burning his fingers as he banged the hood closed.

Staring at the engine and willing it to work wasn't getting him anywhere. The tangle of oil and dirt crusted metal and hoses was too hot for him to get his hands into it without doing serious damage, even if he had had a clue what he was doing in there. He didn't, although he had once solved a similar problem by taking a bunch of parts out and then putting them back in again. He wasn't at all sure why it had worked, but it didn't look like that was going to be possible right now. Besides, his radiator was completely empty, meaning it was probably leaking somewhere, and he didn't have anything to put in it. He may not know much about cars, but he did know that it was probably not a good idea to drive very far without coolant in this heat even if he could have gotten the car started again.   He couldn't afford to completely replace the engine.

Perspiration was trickling down the sides of his face and dripping into his eyes. He wiped at it and ended up unwittingly smudging engine oil across his cheek and temple.  Sighing, Stiles leaned his forehead against the driver's side window, patting the door as if commiserating with an injured friend. "It just hasn't been our week, has it buddy?" he murmured resignedly.

Pushing away, Stiles squinted under the glare, looking up and down the deserted road as far as he could see.  This may not exactly be the middle of nowhere, but it felt like it.  He'd already been here on the side of the road for the better part of a half hour and not a single car had passed. He couldn't just wait here and hope somebody would show up. Who knew when or if that would happen, and there was no way he could sit around idle that long anyway.

Heaving in another sigh of hot air that tasted like dust and overheated asphalt, Stiles grabbed a hat and jacket out of the mess of clothes jumbled together in the back, pocketed his keys and started walking.  He unwillingly shrugged into the jacket despite the heat after a few minutes for the simple reason that he had no sunblock and knew from experience that the unforgiving sun would crisp his relatively fair skin to a cinder if he didn't cover up.

It would be great if he could just call for help, but that would require him to have a phone. He didn't have a phone because he had brilliantly left his cell on the roof of the car along with his cup of coffee when he left the shitty little motel he'd crashed at last night.  All that had remained by the time he realized what he must have done and returned for them was a puddle of coffee and a broken Styrofoam cup, which was exactly his luck and pretty much a metaphor for his whole life right now.

Stiles shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and ducked his head against the glare, not caring to let his thoughts wander towards why he was out here in the first place. The matter at hand right now was finding something that passed for civilization before the unseen-but-probably-out-there buzzards got him. He'd been seeing nothing but wilderness for most of his drive since he turned off the highway hours ago, which was not encouraging. However, Stiles had a vague recollection of having passed what could have been a gas station or roadhouse of some kind a little ways back. With no knowledge of what lay ahead of him, back tracking towards that single point of possible habitation seemed his best bet.  If there was someone there, they would at least have a phone he could use. He wouldn't allow himself to contemplate what he would do if there wasn't anyone there. Optimism was his friend, no matter how shitty its track record was currently.

 A little ways back by car in his memory turned out to be several hours and many miles by foot. Stiles felt like he was literally roasting under his jacket. Perspiration trickled constantly down his spine, running between his shoulder blades. His shirt was soaked everywhere it was protected by the jacket, but the exposed strip down the front where the jacket hung open, and his flushed face, were dry. The arid air seemed to suck away moisture with an almost greedy thirst.  Head spinning and more than a little dazed from the heat, Stiles felt like he could understand. Anything out here would be thirsty. He was. He was so terribly thirsty it hurt.

When he finally saw the dark shape of a building in the distance, he felt an overwhelming swell of relief and his lagging steps quickened. However, distances are hard to judge in the desert and it took him a lot longer than he expected to finally reach the place. He had plenty of time as he approached to see that it was in fact both a gas station and a diner.

The architecture and signage were old. More than old, they were practically ancient.  The weathered, free-standing sign stuck up high into the air; it's curving, comic-book angles and arrows clearly relics of a bygone era.  The building itself stood alone without any neighbors, as if dropped by accident into the middle of the desert landscape.  Lettering on the sign promised gas, food and lodging. As Stiles approached, he saw that the low, squat structure had once been comprised of three distinct but connected wings forming a sort of V pattern. The gas station with its two pumps sat out front, facing the road, while a small, rusting turquoise and chrome diner jutted out to the left. The moldering, badly fire-damaged skeleton of a second wing on the right had probably once been the "lodging" part of the equation.  It couldn't have boasted more than two or three rooms even in its heyday, but it was clearly uninhabitable now. Stiles had the inane thought that they should probably update their sign, although to be honest it looked like nothing here had been updated since the 1950's.

A pealing, hand-painted sign tacked above the gas pumps held the single word "Repairs" which Stiles supposed to be an advertisement of service, although put with everything else it looked kind of like a cry for help. 

He would have begun to despair of finding the station inhabited, except that he could see movement out in front, under the shadow of the slanting, old-fashioned overhang that ran from the station building to the gas pumps.  As he drew closer, Stiles saw that one of the station's two glass windows was broken and there was a young man in a stained white tank busily engaged in boarding it up.  

"Oh my God, am I so glad to see you," Stiles enthused as he approached, voice sticking a bit around the utter dryness of his mouth.  He whipped his baseball cap off, using it to fan himself as he wiped his overheated forehead, blinking owlishly now that he was out of the direct sun and in the blessed relief of the shadow cast by the station's overhang. He must have surprised the fellow because the man tensed at the sound of his voice and spun quickly towards him.

"Unless you're a mirage, I mean, but I don't think mirages usually come people-shaped..." Stiles stopped when he got a good look at the guy, his rambling train of thought momentarily broken.  The dude was hot.  Like,movie star hot, or so it seemed to Stiles. Tall, muscular and dark haired with just a hint of scruff around his jaw, the man filled out his well-used shirt very nicely, the worn cotton unintentionally showing off his toned body to good advantage. Equally worn, low-slung jeans rode at his hips, belt buckle visible beneath the hem of his shirt, dusty denim clad legs ending in even dustier boots. Biker boots, not cowboy boots, Stiles noted as his gaze swept up and down the man unintentionally. "Except on second thought, you could totally be a mirage," Stiles corrected himself. "Totally. I might be sun-struck right now... is that a word?  Like, there's sun stroke, but I dunno what you call it when –"

"Do you want something?" the Adonis in blue jeans demanded a bit shortly, interrupting Stiles' babbling flow of speech. The man looked around with a frown, scanning the deserted road.  "Where did you come from?"

"My car broke down, like, a gillion miles that way," Stiles pointed back the way he'd come. "And there is freaking nothing out here but dust and sage and invisible buzzards.  I took a look, at the engine, not the buzzards, but I'm not sure what's wrong. It's out of coolant, and it would be great if that's the only problem, but the engine won't even turn over, so I don't know."

Mr. Sexy Tank Top was watching him with a flat gaze from underneath an impressive set of eyebrows.  He was bronzed from the sun and perspiration glistened on his biceps and pooled in the hollow between his clavicles... not that Stiles was checking him out or anything.  "So?" the man demanded when Stiles forgot to keep speaking. "What do you want me to do about it?" 

Stiles' eyes narrowed just a little, getting the impression that tall dark and handsome was intentionally being unfriendly.  It shouldn't be a surprise, he thought with a mild pang. The gorgeous ones always seemed to be conceited assholes.  "Well, the sign over there says Repairs," he said, pointing to the worn placard he'd noticed earlier, a touch of sarcasm edging into his tone.  "So call me crazy, but I was thinking maybe you could, like, fix it or something."

"That sign is probably older than you are," the stranger retorted.

Stiles made a face. "Oh, so you don't know anything about cars. Of course. Great."

"I didn't say that," the man returned, sounding a touch annoyed.

"Okay... so you do?" Stiles asked, giving the fellow a squint-eyed look, completely confused by this point.  He should probably just ask to use the phone, but the truth was that now he came to it, Stiles wasn't sure who he would call.  He wasn't even sure how he'd find a nearby towing service or repair shop without being able to Google for it. A place this antiquated probably had a phone book?  The question would be how many decades it had been since it had been replaced.    

Hot-and-Grumpy considered him for a long moment, looking Stiles' dusty, dirty, sweat-streaked form up and down.  "Credit card machine isn't running; cash only," he informed laconically.

Feeling like he finally understood the other's reticence, Stiles relaxed a little in relief. Sure, everybody relied on plastic these days, but luck was with him for once.  "Oh, okay, no problem. I have cash. How much?"

"Forty bucks up front to tow your car back to the station. Twenty to look at the engine; anything else, we'll have wait and see. Depends on what's wrong and whether I think I can fix it."

"Okay, no problem," Stiles agreed easily, finding the price reasonable.  Every dollar was precious, but he had been towed once before and it had cost him a lot more than that.  If this guy was willing to give such good rates and could fix his problem, it might be the first thing that had gone his way in almost a month.  Stiles quickly dug his wallet out of his back pocket, opening it up and extracting two fairly crisp $20 bills from a surprisingly thick wad of similarly fresh bills resting in the folds of incongruously beat-up leather.

Stiles saw the man looking and quickly fumbled the wallet closed again and pocketed it, holding out the bills while kicking himself internally.  He hadn't been thinking. He probably should have been more careful flashing money around like that given his situation.  It would be just his luck to get mugged out here on top of everything.

The mechanic looked at him rather suspiciously, but all he did was take the offered money and tuck it away in his own pocket. "I'll go get the truck," he said, then hesitated with a thoughtful frown. "What kind of car is it?  I can give you a tow either way, but if it's too computerized I'm probably not going to be able to help you with the repairs."

Stiles gave a snort. "No worries there. We're talking about a CJ-5 Jeep from like, 1980. Pretty sure computers were mostly still big as rooms back then."

Stiles saw a hint of amusement flicker across the stoic features before the man turned away and headed around the diner towards the back of the station.  "Come on," he said over his shoulder when Stiles did not immediately follow.  "Truck's this way."

Stiles trotted after him, somewhat reluctantly leaving the shade of the station's canopy for the blistering hot rays of the sun once more.  "I'm Stiles, by the way," he introduced himself as his companion led him to an old, beat-up, rust-colored pick-up truck that had an obviously after-market tow-rig bolted on to the back. 

The other man climbed into the driver's side of the truck without response. 

"And you are?" Stiles prompted a little more obviously as he pulled himself up into the passenger seat, wincing at the hot, close air inside the cab.

The mechanic put the key in the ignition and shifted the truck into drive.  "Miguel," he answered as they pulled out onto the desolate, dusty road.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point it should be mentioned that I know zip about cars and mechanical stuff. Unfortunately, I have to touch on such things briefly in this story. It's not essential to anything, so please just ignore any probable gigantic glaring errors I may make and just laugh quietly behind your hands at me and move on. :) 
> 
> The hardest thing about writing this chapter was consistently calling Derek _Miguel_. You have NO idea how many times I accidentally wrote "Derek" instead and had to go back and replace it afterwards. Ugh. But it's necessary, for reasons that will become apparent soon... :) 
> 
> One other thing I wanted to mention - when visualizing this story, keep in mind that this is a slightly younger Derek than on the series. I'm including some visuals for both he and Stiles for assistance (and mostly just because I like looking at them). :D

 

* * *

 

Stiles stood in the shade of the station's overhang, watching the mechanic inspect his jeep's engine as he gratefully downed the cold bottle of Coke Miguel had given him when he'd asked if there was anything to drink. The icy, sweet, caffeinated liquid was like a touch of heaven and he drained the bottle in under a minute. It was one of those retro style glass bottles, which seemed particularly at home in his current surroundings. The whole effect conspired to make him feel like he'd stepped into an old James Dean movie, or something. He supposed that was probably the idea.

"The glass bottles, are they for the tourists?" Stiles asked his companion, voicing his thoughts as they came to him.  "Well, I mean, if there _were_ tourists," he amended, glancing at the silent, empty strip of road beyond. He'd yet to see another car pass in the entire time since his jeep broke down.  If there was a lonelier stretch of road in existence, he had yet to see it.  Still, he suspected the station stocked the slightly less common, old fashioned bottles because presenting itself as quaint and historical was a better spin than simply being run-down and outdated.

Miguel merely grunted vaguely, either indicating that he didn't know, didn't care, or possibly that he was concentrating and did not wish to be distracted by inane questions. 

Stiles looked around for a trash can, or some other place to dispose of the empty bottle.  "You recycle or anything?" he asked, receiving for reply another distracted sound that told him nothing. "You know any other sounds besides _mmmn_?"

" _Mmmn,_ " said Miguel, and Stiles was fairly certain it was deliberate that time.

Seeing an open, sagging cardboard box against the wall with a number of other empty bottles inside, Stiles added his to the collection before taking a slow circuit around the area. There wasn't much to see. Two chrome edged gas pumps that looked like they may have been installed in the 1970s sat near the farthest edge of the overhang. An empty, battered, defunct ice cooler leaned against the wall next to a stack of moldering tires. The picture was completed by a liberal scattering of old car parts and various boxes and crates of what looked to him like trash.

Out beyond the shadow of the overhang, there appeared to be more junk, a defunct old ford with no tires and an indistinguishably twisted hulk of metal and broken glass that wasn't a car.  Given that all of those items lay out in the broiling sunlight, Stiles was quite content to glance at them from afar and remain in the shade.  

There were wide, double-doors leading into the station itself. The wood doorframe was painted a faded, flaking olive color and the rows of small glass panes set into it were clouded to near opaqueness. One of the doors had been left propped open and just inside the entry sat an old-fashioned vending machine bearing the Pepsi logo and a glass-fronted refrigerator case from which Miguel had fetched the Coke a few minutes ago.

Stiles wandered in through the open door and was mildly disappointed, although not at all surprised, to find that the interior of the shop was not air conditioned.  There was a large oscillating fan sitting upon the counter at one end of room, which was doing an all right job of moving the air around, but it was still fairly warm and close inside the little building.  The hum of the refrigerator case by the door filled the small space. The contrast with the brilliant sunlight outside made it seem dim inside by comparison. It smelled like oil, warm metal and that particular musty scent he associated with little old ladies' houses, or the old research library at MFU.  Stiles had once remarked that the library smelled like wet dog, but Scott, who had spent most of high school working at a veterinary clinic, had disagreed with that analogy.

Quickly forcing his mind away from that line of thought, Stiles took a circuit of the little shop.  There wasn't much to see in here either. There was a small counter on one side of the room which held the fan, an ancient looking, tan-colored telephone and a slightly more modern cash register. Pegboards on the walls stood mostly empty save for a few tools, some packaged car parts and various paper flyers that were mostly so faded they were no longer legible. 

A door at the back of the shop stood partially open, probably leading to an office or store room of some kind. As far as he could see, there was no communication between the shop and the diner beside it, nor the ruined motel wing opposite, despite them sharing the same outer wall structure.

There were several crates of the glass Coca-Cola bottles stacked up against one wall, along with a number of pallets of bottled water.  There was a water cooler with a 5 gallon jug on top wedged in next to the counter and Stiles saw 4 full replacements lined up underneath the unbroken window.  Double rows of shelves divided the room. One of the shelves was completely full of cans of oil, coolant, transmission fluid, wiper fluid and the like, but the others were almost completely empty with only a smattering of products making a desultory appearance.

There were a few bags of sunflower seeds, some hard candy and an open carton of Twinkies that looked like it had probably been there for the last 50 years.  The refrigerator case was more fully stocked, but only with Coke and water bottles. Overall, it did not seem a terribly customer-ready establishment, and given the complete lack of traffic this road seemed to have, Stiles wondered how the station stayed open at all. 

Wandering back outside he glanced hopefully at Miguel, but there had been no visible change in affairs save for him appearing to be now elbow deep in the motor.  With a sigh, Stiles wandered over to walk lazy figure eights around the two gas pumps.  They were so old they didn't even have credit-card readers, or the ability to select different grades of gas.  He poked and fiddled with a couple of funny dangly metal latches on the side of the pump, trying and failing to ascertain their purpose. He tried to lift one of the skinny, old-fashioned handles, but found that it wouldn't move. He thought at first there must be some kind of catch or trick to it, but further examination showed that the pump handle had in fact been intentionally zip-tied into its cradle to prevent its extraction.  The same was true on both pumps.

Stiles straightened with a puzzled frown. "Okay, I don't get it.  You've got, like, nothing in the store and your gas pumps are non-functional. How exactly does this place stay open?"

Miguel finally leaned up from his task, looking over towards Stiles. Engine grease smudged his fingers and his arms.  He jerked one thumb in the direction of the "Closed" sign still clearly visible on the unopened side of the station's double-doors. 

"It doesn't," he informed flatly.  "We're closed, in case you hadn't noticed.  The pumps are shut off and wired down to prevent anyone messing with them. Credit card machine isn't up and running for the same reason. Nobody comes out this way unless they're going up to see the Rainbow Canyons, but this is the off-season and there's not enough traffic at this time of year to stay open. Come monsoon season that changes. This is the only station on this road between Elmira and Gold Ridge. That's around 50-60 miles in either direction," he added as if realizing Stiles might not be familiar enough with the area to understand what that meant. "So, it sees enough business then to make it at least worthwhile to maintain." 

"That makes sense, I guess," Stiles replied with a slow nod. He leaned forward on the gas pump in front of him, resting his elbows on it as they conversed.  "But why are you here now, if it's closed?"

Miguel shrugged, and no, Stiles attention was _not_ caught by the way his shoulder muscles rippled under tanned, grease-smudged skin, _noooope._  

"I hired on last season during the peak and when it came time to close up, old man Winnemucca made me an offer to stay on and keep an eye on things during the off season.  He's getting too old to come out here much anymore during the off-season himself." Miguel turned his attention back to the engine, as if considering that explanation enough, but Stiles wasn't satisfied.

"So why not keep the station open just in case, then, if there's going to be someone here anyway?" he asked, fingers crawling absently out across the hot metal of the pump upon which he leaned.

Miguel's attention remained focused on the jeep this time, but at least he answered.  "Because he doesn't have to pay me nearly as much if all I'm doing is staying here and watching the place."

Stiles' eyes widened a little. "Wait, you _live_ here?" He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to do that for any amount of money.

Miguel pulled a wrench from his back pocket and tackled some well-stuck nut or bolt that Stiles couldn't see from his position. He did not look up. "Yes," he said simply. "If the station's left completely abandoned for the whole off-season, it gets vandalized. Stupid kids from town come out here to get drunk, high and laid and they're always breaking in and messing things up.  That's what happened to the motel," he nodded his head vaguely in the direction of the burnt out husk Stiles had noted earlier. "I'm told they nearly lost the whole station. I guess that's when the old man decided it was more economical to pay for a babysitter than to repair the damage after the fact. The old motel wing was mostly a storage area by that point, but I don't think they could afford to completely rebuild if something happened to this part of the station."

"Yeah, okay, but... you _live_ here," Stiles repeated.  "Dude, this has got to be the loneliest spot on earth."

Miguel's shoulders were tight now and if Stiles were a little better at reading social cues, he probably would have realized he should have backed off of what seemed a sensitive subject.

"Mr. Winnemucca needed someone willing to rough it for a few months. I need the money and a place to stay," Miguel said flatly, flashing an irritated look at his nosy companion. "It works out. Not all of us have the luxury of being picky about what opportunities come our way."

Properly abashed, Stiles studied the top of the gas pump like it was absolutely enthralling. He hadn't meant to cause offense and as usual only realized afterwards, from the reactions received, how un-tactful his words could seem if taken from a certain point of view.  "Right, so... so that's really nice, that you're able to help out like that. Um, I'm sure he's really glad to have someone taking care of things and keeping the trouble-makers away." Stiles said into the uncomfortable silence, unable to keep from trying to fill it and attempting to set back out on a positive foot again.

Miguel gave Stiles an unreadable look before going around to the driver's side of the car and sliding in to try starting it up.  Nothing happened and he returned to stare pensively at the engine once more. 

Stiles fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the pump. "Is that what happened to the window?" he tried again, nodding towards the boarded-up side of the storefront that Miguel had been working on when Stiles arrived.  "Vandalism, I mean?"

"Mmmn," Miguel responded, dropping down onto his back on the ground and scooting half under the car. 

Stiles rolled his eyes as the mechanic partially disappeared from view.  "Or I guess it could have been a freak storm," he continued. "You can get some pretty high winds out here, I think.  The other day I was driving by this cluster of trees and –"

"It was vandals," Miguel's clipped voice from beneath the car cut the rambling story off and Stiles smiled ever so slightly. "A couple of drunk idiots were out here last night throwing rocks, but a few good shotgun blasts scared them off," the mechanic added with what might have been a touch of satisfaction in his tone.

"Geez."  Stiles shook his head. " _People_ , right? Can't live with them, can't... well, I guess you _can_ live without them, but I imagine it'd get a little lonely, _sometimes_."  Stiles only realized too late that although he'd meant the words generically, it was easy to think them directed at the mechanic's distinctly solitary position out here.

"I don't know," the cool voice drifted up from under the car, flavored with a certain tang of irony.  "I rather enjoy it out here, honestly.  It's so _quiet._ You don't have to put up with a lot of useless _talking._ "

Stiles took the none-too-subtle hint and shut up, at least for the moment. He resumed wandering about the small patch of shade under which they stood, poking through boxes and trying to figure out the origins and purpose of the sundry bits of junk that filled them.

Eventually, Miguel pushed himself back out from under the car and straightened up, wiping his hands on the thighs of his stained jeans. Stiles broke from his bored perambulations and came over at once.

"So... what do you think?" he asked hopefully.  "Top off the fluids, tighten a few screws here, replace a belt there and we're good to go?"

Miguel shook his head.  He now had black smudges on his face as well as his hands and shirt.  "I _think_ I've seen road kill that looks better than this engine," he said bluntly.  "You've got a leak in your radiator, but that's the least of your troubles.  I see so many issues in there it's impossible to say which one finally caused it to stop.  Bottom line, this car is _old_. It's amazing it's been running at all. A lot of the tubing is cracking and some inner gears have completely frozen up. It doesn't help that it looks like somebody's monkeyed around with a bunch of the engine parts at some point and didn't resettle them all properly."

"Oh. Really? Huh, weird," Stiles said with a wide-eyed, incredibly guilty attempt at looking innocent.  "But... you can fix it, right?"

Miguel hesitated, eyeing the car in question and Stiles started to feel an unreasonable sense of desperation building in the pit of his stomach at the thought of losing his faithful old friend. It was like all the pieces of his life were getting stripped away one by one and he wasn't ready to deal with losing another. Not so soon. 

"It would be a pretty big job," Miguel hedged.

"Okay, but you can do it?  Look, I can pay, and I've got cash," Stiles pressed, trying and failing to not let his feelings slip through. He really hoped Miguel was just haggling with him.  He was pretty sure that the majority of any money the man made off him would go straight into the young mechanic's own pocket, since he was in fact only being paid by his employer to watch the station and not for his professional services.  Big repairs probably meant big money. Stiles had no idea what he was going to live on if he exhausted his cash, but he'd figure something out, he always did.  Fixing Roscoe up was more important... and yes, he named his car, so what?  They'd been together longer than most people he knew had been with their significant others, and his jeep was infinitely more useful, _so there_.

Miguel was frowning, but his expression was fractionally softer than before. "Look, I have to tell you that given the age and wear of the vehicle, you might want to consider that it's time to replace it.  If you can call someone to come pick you up, you should probably do that.  I can't tow you all the way to town with our rig, but you can leave it here and I'll keep an eye on it for you until you can send a real tow truck out to pick it up, if you want."

Stiles shook his head violently, aghast at the suggestion.  "No. No way am I giving up on this jeep, like, _ever._ Just because you can't fix him doesn't mean _nobody_ can.  Do you have a Yellow Pages?  There's got to be some better repair place around here that will be willing to come and pick me up."

Miguel's face went hard again, bristling at the slight. "I didn't say I _couldn't_ fix it," he said pointedly, "just that it would be a big job.  Trust me, I'd love to take on a challenge like this _and_ get paid for it, but I'm not going to act like that's your best or only option just because you're stuck out here and probably don't know any better.  _The car is old._ You fix it up now, there's no guarantee it won't break down on you again and again in the future, that's a _fact._ If, knowing that, you're still determined to get it fixed, okay then, that's a different story."

Stiles bit his lower lip, realizing he had been rude when the other man had only been attempting to be scrupulously honest with him.

"You want to call somebody else, that's fine," Miguel continued coolly.  "They _can_ probably fix it for you a lot faster.  If you're willing and able to wait, I could do it and can give you a much better price, but it'll take a while.  It's your choice."

"Oh," Stiles gnawed his lower lip some more. "Well, I mean, if you could do it that would be great... how much are we talking?  And how long is _a while_?"

Miguel looked thoughtful. "I'm going to have to take the whole assembly apart to reach everything that needs repairing.  Plus, half the problem is that everything is simply frozen up with years of accumulated dirt. A thorough cleaning will go a long way. The radiator and the oil lines need patching. The hoses, the starter and most of your valve seals need to be replaced and that's just the tip of the iceberg. We've got a lot of spare parts and a couple junkers out back with good innards. I'm pretty sure I can scavenge everything that might be needed." His gaze fixed on Stiles. "You need to understand we're not talking new parts. I don't know if anyone could even get you new parts for an engine this old, but I'll be working with what I have at hand and rebuilding what I can't replace," he stated clearly.

Stiles nodded his understanding. "Yeah, that's fine; as long as it works I'm good with that."

"Okay," Miguel nodded in turn. "Then, unless we run into anything unexpected or anything I can't replace without ordering a specific part, I can do it for you for $600.  Time is another matter.  It's already late afternoon and there's no way I'm going to be able to finish it tonight. I'm not sure about tomorrow either. I'll give it my full attention, but like I said, I'm going to have to take the whole assembly apart and if I end up cleaning and re-tooling a lot of the parts, it will slow things down. I may need a couple days. I can drive you over to Elmira now, and come get you when it's done."

"Yeah, yeah, let's do it," Stiles was already saying almost before Miguel had even finished.  $600 was a _lot_ of money to him, but it sounded like Miguel was pretty much rebuilding the whole engine and Stiles was well aware that it would cost him many times more than that for the same services elsewhere.  He'd had to pay a similar amount for much more minor repairs only last year.  "But..." he added a little more slowly, wanting to make sure his bases were covered.  "What if there _is_ anything unexpected or parts you can't replace?"

"This is an old, but pretty common engine. Any parts I don't have here I can probably hunt up in town. If I have to do that, I'll have to charge extra for the part and the gas back and forth to town. If I can't find the part, or anything else prevents me from finishing the job for you, you pay me $60 for the time I put into it and we call it even."

Stiles thought that sounded fair. "Okay, deal," he agreed, beginning to feel relieved.  "But, uh... about taking me into town... I don't suppose there's any way I could just... I don't know, crash here tonight?" he asked hopefully. 

Miguel looked distinctly surprised and hesitant about the suggestion. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"I wouldn't be any trouble," Stiles pressed his case. "I can sleep in a corner somewhere, wherever, it's cool, and I have food in my car, so it wouldn't put you out anything. I can... I don't know, help you chase off any more vandals or whatever, in exchange?"

"It's unlikely they'll be back any time soon," Miguel hedged.

"Well, maybe I can help with something else?  It's just... you're not sure how long it's going to take and I wasn't exactly expecting the repairs, you know?  I don't know anyone around here and the crappy motel I stayed at last night was shockingly expensive," he admitted, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand as he did when he was agitated.  Stiles was more than a little worried about his finances. It wasn't that he _couldn't_ afford to stay in a hotel for a few nights, but after that his options were going to become severely limited and he still had to consider what he was going to do _after_ the car was fixed.

"Oh," Miguel seemed to apprehend Stiles' problem.  He didn't look at all happy, but finally nodded reluctantly. "All right, I suppose you can stay, tonight at least. Maybe I'll be able to get it finished up tomorrow," he added a bit dubiously.

Stiles' face brightened. "Awesome!  Thanks!"

Miguel just shrugged, his expression having once more taken on that wary, suspicious edge that Stiles didn't really understand.  What did the man think, that he was secretly planning to rip the place off or something?  What the hell would he steal?  Used machine parts and Twinkies from the Carter administration? 

Stiles learned a little more about the layout of the station over the next few hours. One important thing was that the restrooms were around the back. They were of the single room, _his and hers_ variety common to gas stations apparently since the beginning of time.  There also turned out to be a shed behind the station of a much more recent build than the structure itself, in which a wide variety of tools, a large quantity of car parts and several large containers of emergency gasoline were kept safely locked up.  Stiles had to admit he was relieved to see a bunch of crates with obviously used, but tidy and functional looking machine bits stacked along the walls of the shed. When Miguel had talked about scavenging parts for his car, he'd been thinking a bit dubiously of the distinctly battered and rusty specimens out in front of the station, but he realized now that those must be little more than trash; this was the true stash. 

Miguel worked on the car late into the evening, keeping it in front of the station where it was shaded during the day and could be illuminated at night.  Lacking anything better to do, Stiles sat on the battered outdoor ice cooler as the sun set and watched him work in the flickering florescent glow of the stations' ancient outdoor lights.  The temperatures dropped with the sun and the approaching night was cool but not chilly.  The wall Stiles leaned against felt warm, the plaster and cement block at his back slowly releasing the heat stored up during the scorching day gone by.

Miguel had spread a tarp on the ground and there was a small but growing array of Roscoe's guts arranged upon it.  The young mechanic looked edged in white under the harsh, uneven glare of the few functional overhead lights that shone down upon his work area. His perspiration slick skin glistened slightly and each tousled dark hair on his head seemed outlined in silver.  His shirt rode up his back a bit each time he bent over the car and his worn jeans were appropriately snug across his hips.  Stiles was almost too exhausted after all his walking earlier to be properly bored by the lack of activity, and it wasn't as if watching Miguel bending over the engine or crawling about under the car wasn't entertaining in its own way.  The man had a great ass, and Stiles was getting away with so much quiet ogling that he almost felt guilty about it. _Almost._

Insects buzzed about them and filled the deepening night with their rhythmic droning. Stiles had been slapping at them for a while, but it was quickly becoming a much more frequent event. Finally, the increasing mosquitoes combined with the deepening darkness and inadequate illumination drove them both inside.

Miguel closed the hood and carefully arraigned another tarp over the parts he'd already extracted, weighting it down with rocks. The interior of the station was still warmer than the outdoors, but in a more pleasant way now. Stiles gladly retreated inside after Miguel and shut the door against the questing insects.

The illumination inside the station was not dazzling, but it was more than sufficient to keep out the night.  It turned out the little room in the back that Stiles had seen earlier was Miguel's bedroom, although it looked like it had in fact been a storeroom at some not very long ago point before that.

Miguel pulled one of the two blankets off the old army cot he was using for a bed and handed it to Stiles.  "You can sleep out here," he said, gesturing to the main area of the store.  "You know where the bathrooms are. There's a hose and a bucket out near the shed if you wanna wash. Not now, there's no light out there, but in the morning.  Don't drink the tap water, and stay away from the Cokes and bottled waters unless I say you can. Use the water cooler as much as you need," he gestured to the unit Stiles had observed earlier. "Make sure to stay hydrated, it's easy not to notice how much moisture you're losing in the desert."

"Got it," Stiles nodded in response to the information, snapping the other man a jaunty little salute. "All the comforts of home."

"You wanted to stay," the mechanic pointed out.

"Nah, I mean it, sounds cozy," Stiles asserted cheerfully, determined to take this all as an adventure. He picked the back corner of the store between the shelf and the wall and spread his blanket on the floor. "You got a nice little self-sufficient thing going on here. I think I am gonna pitch my camp right over here. Yeah, this looks good."

Miguel just looked at him like he wasn't sure whether Stiles was making fun or in earnest. Then he retreated back outside to put his tools away.

Stiles went outside again as well to retrieve some things from his jeep. He thankfully never traveled without his pillow and he grabbed it from the back seat, tucking it under one arm. In his other hand, he gathered up what was left of his snack food, which was jumbled about in the wheel well on the passenger side of the car. A couple of Slim Jims and a half full snack-size bag of chips was all he had left, but it would have to do. _Better than nothing, right?_  Stiles tried not to focus on how unhappily his empty stomach protested this assessment.

Off this his right, he saw Miguel enter the little diner instead of going back into the store. A moment later, a light sprang on inside.  The diner door had been locked earlier. Stiles hadn't been in there yet and his curiosity was piqued.

He went back inside the station long enough to drop his pillow off atop the blanket in his little sleeping area and then headed back out and around to the diner entrance. He found it to be just as old as the station. Three booths with badly cracking upholstery sat along the wall by almost completely boarded over windows. A long, single counter top edged in chrome ran down the other side, separating the tiny dining area from the equally tiny cooking area just behind the counter. Only three of the original counter stools remained, their seats cracked like the booths, but servable.  Whatever equipment the kitchen had once boasted the only item still functioning looked to be the large hot plate, the rest of the cooking area was now filled with stacks of canned soups and vegetables and boxes of dry goods.  A small mini-fridge was wedged into the space like an afterthought and in a shocking second nod to modernity, there was also a microwave sitting on the far end of the counter. 

Miguel had squeezed himself dexterously into the small area of the kitchen that was passable and was standing in front of the hot plate, presumably making himself supper.

Stiles closed his eyes, the scent of chili dogs hitting him hard and reminding him forcefully of just how hungry he was. He should probably go take his own dinner over in the store and try to get right to sleep, but that suddenly felt like a very lonely thing to do. The darkness outside seemed to compound the sheer emptiness of the countryside around and his own sense of isolation.  He hadn't even realized he was feeling that way until now he found that he really didn't want to be alone just at the moment.  The draw of company was more powerful than the torturous smell of food.

Sliding onto one of the stools at the end of the counter nearest the door, Stiles gave Miguel a slightly hesitant smile when the other man glanced up towards him. 

"Hey... is it okay if I sit here?"

Miguel shrugged.  "Suit yourself." 

Stiles resolutely tried not to look at the hot dogs the mechanic was browning on one side of the skillet, nor the lovely mess of chili he was stirring around with a large metal spatula on the other.  Maybe... maybe tomorrow he could buy a meal off his host. Miguel couldn't object to that, right?  Right now, however, Stiles was conscious of how little the other man had wanted him here and of having claimed self-sufficiency on the food front, so he gamely placed his small meal on the counter in front of him and set to it.

Miguel glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow. Stiles smiled back bravely and ate a potato chip as if to demonstrate that all was well.  _They were just two guys, eating their dinner, and he was totally not coveting his companion's amazing smelling meal, nope._   Stiles finished the few remaining chips in one go and shook out the crumbs into his mouth. The Slim Jims he pealed and ate slower, but they still disappeared much too fast.  _Stupid teenage metabolism._ He knew he wasn't _really_ starving, and he should buck up and get over it, but he was _so_ hungry.

Stiles was staring so absorbedly at the empty jerky wrappers on the counter that he jumped in his seat when Miguel set something down in front of him with a clank of ceramic on metal. Stiles was surprised to find that it was a plate containing two hot, steaming  chili dogs. He quickly shot the other man a questioning look. Miguel was busy setting down a second, similar plate for himself on the counter in front of the next unbroken stool.

"I made too much, you might as well have some," Miguel mumbled as he came around the counter to take his seat.

Stiles eagerly grabbed the generously filled plate, which in no way could have been an accidental amount of leftovers, and pulled it closer.  He inhaled the scent appreciatively and snatched up one of the hot dogs. "Oh my God, this is _amazing!_ " he enthused around a hurried mouthful of food. "Dude, you are awesome!  Thanks!"

An actual smile played about the mechanic's lips as he watched Stiles delightedly tucking into his dinner.  He dropped his gaze to his own plate when Stiles looked over at him, simply giving a small shrug in reply.

They ate together in silence for a few minutes, and surprisingly enough Miguel was the one who broke it first.  "So, what exactly are you doing out here, anyway?" he asked, eyeing Stiles as the boy licked some escaping chili from his wrist.

Stiles swallowed a bite of food, tongue darting out to lick his lips but missing the large smudges of chili in the corners.  "Going to see the Rainbow Canyons," he answered simply.

Miguel's eyebrows climbed skeptically. " _Now?_ " he inquired.  "All by yourself? This really isn't the best time of year for it.  You know they're called the Rainbow Canyons because of all the flowers that bloom in the basins, right?"

Stiles nodded. "And some of the ravines have only one color predominate," he concurred. "There's a red canyon, a yellow and sort of orange canyon, a blue canyon, and sometimes a purple canyon, so it's not really a full rainbow, but yeah."  

"Okay, but you do realize that nothing is blossoming this time of year?" Miguel pressed incredulously. "They won't bloom until the rains come, that's why this is the _off season_. Right now they're not the _rainbow anything_ , they're just canyons, like every other canyon out here." 

Stiles was picking at the last third of his remaining hot dog, looking fixedly at his plate.  "Oh. Well... I'm sure the canyons are still nice."

Miguel eyed him strangely. "Well, you can't be a botany student if you didn't know that, so why come all the way out here by yourself to see them, anyway?  You a photographer or something?" He said it like he doubted that.

Stiles shrugged. "No. It just seemed like a thing to do.  My mom came up here with my dad before I was born and she used to talk about it sometimes.  I pass the exit signs all the time. I always thought I'd detour one day to check it out. Now... well, I haven't got anything better to do, so why not?  I'll probably still go have a look, I mean, I came this far, right?" he spoke lightly and dismissively, but there was a taint of defensiveness to the explanation that hinted at there being more to the story than he wished to tell.

"If that's what makes you happy," Miguel responded amicably enough, although it seemed to Stiles there was a flicker of that wary suspicion again behind his dark eyes, like Miguel didn't entirely believe him for some reason. That was weird, because why would he lie about something like this? Either Miguel was kind of paranoid, or maybe Stiles was and he was misreading suspicion when his host was just trying not to laugh at his stupidity or something.  That seemed more likely.

Later, when Stiles was bedding down in the little nest he'd made for himself in the corner of the shop, he saw Miguel go into his bedroom, then come out again with a long barreled shotgun over his shoulder. He frowned in concern, but the other man made a reassuring gesture when he saw Stiles watching him. 

"Don't worry, nothing's wrong," Miguel told him. "I'm just going to take a turn around outside to make sure everything's quiet and there's no idiots out there looking for trouble again. I'll be back in a few, you should sleep."

Stiles settled down, wrapped himself in his blanket and attempted to do so. He was exhausted and his stomach was full, so it should have been easy, but the strange surroundings kept him hovering at the edge of half-wakefulness for a while.  Finally he started drifting towards a true, deeper sleep and was therefore only vaguely aware of it when Miguel finally returned from his rounds, shotgun still over one arm.  He thought as sleep claimed him, that he'd never seen anyone quite so proactive about potential vandalism before.


	3. Chapter 3

Miguel worked on the jeep for most of the following day. By about mid-afternoon the engine was a completely disassembled spread of parts and Stiles was familiar with just about every inch of the station from the mangled remains of a free-standing payphone which looked like a fairly recent victim of bad driving, to the thick patch of weeds halfway up the hill behind the station that looked kind of like George Washington if you tilted your head and squinted a lot.

Exploring the burnt-out section of the building had entertained him for a good part of the morning, but by now he had exhausted all avenues of self-entertainment and was getting seriously antsy. He didn't have his phone to play on, there was no internet connection for his laptop, and Stiles was bored silly.

He watched Miguel for a while, but even that couldn't hold him forever and to be honest the sprawl of parts to which his beloved jeep's internal organs had been reduced made him kind of queasy. He also wasn't sure whether he should be worried about the fact that Miguel frequently stopped to consult a couple of old books full of diagrams and mechanical looking information, which he had laying open on the ground beside him.

"Sooo, mechanic-ing... do you, like, go to school for this kind of thing, or are you self-taught?" Stiles asked curiously as he fiddled with the radio dial.  Miguel had brought out a beat up 90's style radio/tape player combo to use while he worked and Stiles discovered that it managed to get a decent number of local stations.

"I know what I'm doing, if that's what you're asking," Miguel replied without looking up. "I've been working on cars since I was in high school."

That didn't really answer Stiles' question. "How long ago was that?" he inquired.  He would guess that Miguel was maybe a couple of years older than him, but no more.

"You ask a lot of questions," the mechanic observed instead of answering. "And quit playing with the radio."

Stiles stopped scanning the stations and let it settle, a familiar car insurance jingle humming brightly through the speakers. "Have you ever rebuilt an engine before?"

"Not this model, but yes," Miguel's voice was growing increasingly impatient.

"Did you grow up around here?" Stiles asked, flicking a drop of spit onto a rock sitting in the sunlight just outside the protection of the station's overhang and watching to see how long it took it to evaporate under the scorching sun.  He'd grabbed a change of clothes out of his car earlier and was now wearing a relatively fresh tee under a plaid over shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was warm even in the shade and Stiles flapped the over shirt a little to create some air movement.

Miguel didn't answer.  The bead of moisture was already nothing more than a dark spot on the dusty rock. "Have you ever been to the Rainbow Canyons?" Stiles tried again.  The radio advertisements ended and a twangy country ballad started playing. Stiles automatically reached over and twisted the tuning dial again, this time landing on some station playing a _Journey_ song Stiles knew by sound but couldn't name.  

Exasperated, Miguel shoved out from under the car and leaned up on his elbow.  "Stiles, I can't work with you constantly chattering at me.  Do you _want_ to be stuck here forever?  If not, shut up, let me concentrate and _stop_ messing with the radio before I break your arm."

Stiles scowled at him, dropping his arms and gesturing in annoyance.  "Oh my God, _okay,_ " he said, exaggerating the word.  "No need to be all grumpy cat, I can take a hint."

"Can you?" Miguel asked flatly, his tone dripping skepticism as he pushed back under the car.

Stiles made a face in his direction and sulked over behind the gas pumps.  Picking up some of the loose gravel collected there, he tossed it one stone at a time out into the dazzling sunlight. He tried to see if he could get them as far as the broken phone booth and after a few tries he had the range, the stones pinging and plinking off the metal and glass as he scored.

"Are you breaking something?" Miguel's muffled, long-suffering voice held a hint of warning.

" _No_ ," Stiles grumped back at him.  The next rock caught the edge of a half-broken glass pane dangling from one side of the wreck, completing its demise with a very audible shattering sound. "Uh... nothing that wasn't already broken," Stiles amended quickly, dropping the rest of the stones he was holding.

"Go inside," Miguel ordered. "Now."

Stiles spread his arms incredulously, heat and monotony making him extra tetchy. "What?!  I'm not talking; I'm not touching the radio.  _Go inside..._ geez, man, you're not my Dad."

Miguel shoved out from under the car again and the look on his face made Stiles swallow any further remarks.  "No," the mechanic fairly growled.  "I'm the guy who is _trying_ to fix your car so you can get the hell out of here before I _kill_ you. Go inside before I change my mind about one of those things."

Stiles stomped into the station, knowing he was acting stupidly petulant and only partially able to care.  "OKAY, I'm INSIDE," he announced from the doorway.  "Dude... come on, there's nothing to do in here.  How do you seriously not die of boredom?"  He was starting to get a headache and suddenly realized that what with everything that had happened, he'd not taken his Adderall since yesterday, which explained a good deal about why he felt like crawling out of his skin. _Oops._

Stiles started to go back to his jeep, to retrieve the medication from the glove compartment where he'd stashed it for traveling, but Miguel saw him and stopped him with a glare, pointing back towards the station. His dark eyes said he'd just about had it.   

"You. Back inside."

"But I just need to –"

"No."

"You don't under –"

"No."

"OH MY GOD WILL YOU JUST –"

Miguel pushed up to his feet and took a few meaningful steps towards him.  He may not be that much older than Stiles, but he had several inches on him in height and was significantly more muscular. 

Stiles back-pedaled quickly under the look being leveled at him, scrambling back through the station door. "Uh, yeah, okay, it can wait."

Miguel looked after him for a moment as if to make sure he was actually staying put before returning to the jeep.  "There's some books and magazines in my room, you can borrow what you want as long as you put it back," he offered.

Stiles unenthusiastically accepted the suggestion and trekked back to Miguel's tiny bedroom in search of new sources of entertainment.  He really wondered how Miguel could stand living like this day after day. It would drive him insane. It was so quiet and empty out here. All they needed was a whistling wind blowing around the station and a few dancing tumbleweeds and he'd feel like either the ghost in a ghost town or the survivor of some apocalyptic disaster movie.

The small bedroom was pretty spartan. A sleeping cot and a tall set of storage shelves were the only pieces of furniture and there was barely room to maneuver between them.  The shelves held a few sets of neatly folded clothing and a lot of books.  There was also a small, inexpensive looking portable television with an antenna.  It got three fuzzy local channels, none of which were playing anything remotely interesting, so Stiles turned it off and examined the well-worn books instead. There were a lot of them. Either someone else had left them behind or Miguel was a reader.  Stiles suspected the latter, since seriously, the guy had to do _something_ alone out here all day.

There were an unsurprising number of books and manuals relating to cars and car repair as well as several outdated issues of popular mechanics, but Miguel's library did not run only to the technical. There were a lot of sports magazines, a couple of biographies and fair selection of both popular and classic fiction, as well as few more surprising items including several volumes on philosophy and one on medieval history.  Stiles found half a dozen college level textbooks sitting together on one of the lower shelves, along with a couple of spiral bound notebooks. 

Miguel was probably college age, but Stiles assumed he mustn't be in school since most universities were just going into the final stretches their spring semesters at this time of year.  The books suggested an interest in education, so maybe he was just taking some time off?  Or maybe he wanted to go but couldn't afford it?  Stiles doubted that being a mechanic at a closed station in the middle of nowhere was really anyone's intentional life goal.  In all likelihood, something had happened to disrupt whatever other plans Miguel had once had. 

Stiles knew all about that.  Life had a way of being both capricious and sometimes cruel.  Not wanting to think about that, he turned away from the textbooks and the unwanted, still much too raw feelings they evoked.  He seriously needed a distraction. Or his meds. Or both. Both would be good.

To be honest, by the time Stiles was this restless he was usually unable to concentrate enough to read, but there were a couple of sports magazines he might thumb through. He wondered, however, if Miguel had any... well... slightly _more_ entertaining reading. Kneeling by the bed, Stiles looked underneath, just to see.  That's where he would hide his magazines if they were of the _interesting_ variety. Not that he'd ever actually had any, this was the internet age after all, but Miguel seemed like a print and paper kind of guy and anyway, he didn't appear to have a computer.

In truth, Stiles was almost more interested in finding out what kind of material Miguel found stimulating than he was in the actual object of his search.  He sadly wasn't holding out much hope of finding gay porn hidden under the mattress, but oh well, Stiles could enjoy a girly mag too; there were advantages to being bi.

There were some sneakers and other junk shoved under the bed, but no porn, or magazines of any kind. Stiles frowned, pushing things aside and lifting the mattress a bit. It seemed rather impossible to him that Miguel wouldn't have _something._ He was out here completely alone for goodness sake.  As he re-settled the mattress, Stiles' eye caught on something.  This area had originally been a store room, and as such it appeared to have been plastered with much less care than the rest of the building, or perhaps it had simply not been re-plastered and painted as much as the rest had. Whichever was the case, the cinder block construction of the walls was clearly visible, cracks tracing the outlines of the thick squares.  It got worse towards the lower portions of the walls, which had clearly seen much abuse over the years.  The plaster had completely crumbled away from one of the cinderblocks directly beneath the bed and it was slightly off-set from the rest wall in a way that drew his attention.   

Bending closer and twisting his head around to see better, Stiles confirmed that the block was indeed protruding farther forward than those around it. Something about the way it looked made him reach under and give it an experimental tug to see just how lose it was. The block shifted easily. Getting a better grip, Stiles pulled with his fingertips, wiggling the cinderblock back and forth as he inched it forward, until it suddenly pulled clear of the wall entirely, revealing that it was only about a quarter as thick as he was pretty sure such a block should have been.  The back end of it looked like it had been broken away, creating a small space about the size of a shoebox behind it when it was pushed into place.

Driven by curiosity, Stiles automatically checked the little cubby.  Reaching inside, he found that there was, in fact, an old shoe box there, shoved into the gap.  He drew it out and pulled off the worn lid with an undeniable feeling of childish excitement as he wondered how long this had been here and what vintage secrets it may contain. It quickly became apparent, however, that the box did not date back as far as most of the station and was instead a much more recent addition. 

It was an odd assortment of items that greeted him, made all the stranger by their mundane ordinariness.  There was nothing in here that one would expect to find secreted away in a hidden alcove. The collection of memorabilia looked to him like it would be much more at home in someone's attic or the back of a closet.

There were blank postcards for obscure attractions like fancifully named waterfalls and the world's largest chair, along with a keychain shaped like a wolf howling at the moon and a small plastic dinosaur with ridiculously large eyes. A number of baseball cards depicting players from the previous decade were wrapped in an aging rubber-band in one corner.  In another, there was a small stack of photos, placed face-down with drug store watermarks running across the back. There was also a badly tarnished and slightly warped bronze baby shoe that looked as if something seriously bad had happened to it. There was writing on the side. Stiles lifted it out and rubbed his thumb over the blackened metal around the lettering, squinting to try and make out the inscription.  He couldn't read the date, but could discern what looked like the name "Cora". 

When he lifted the shoe, he saw that there was a framed 5x7" photo in the bottom of the box. It appeared to have been partially burned.  The glass was cloudy and blackened in one corner, the metal frame melted and fused to the glass and what remained of the charred photo inside. A sharp line of demarcation ran diagonally across the framed image, as if some other object had partially shielded it from complete destruction.  Stiles shifted the contents of the box away from the undamaged section of the photo enough to see the smiling faces of what appeared to be a family.  A good portion of the photo had been lost, but Stiles could still make out a man, a woman, a young teenage girl, a pre-teen boy and a toddler in arms, probably another girl although the blackening made it hard to tell what the youngest child was wearing. He didn't recognize any of them, but when he turned over the handful of other photos resting in the corner of the box, Stiles instantly realized to whom this odd collection belonged.

There were a couple smaller, wallet-sized photos at the bottom of the stack. One was a school photo of the teenage girl from the burned picture, the other was a baby picture of another girl. They could have been the same person at different ages, but Stiles suspected they were instead the older and younger sisters from the photo. The rest of the small stack of photos were more candid, personal shots that looked to all have been digitally self-printed at different times at various stores which offered that service.  Most of the photos were of different places and scenery, but often they included a teenage boy and a young woman who could have been late teens or early twenties. The woman was clearly an older version of the teen in the other photos, making it reasonable to assume that the boy was her younger brother, also older now.  The teen's dark, curly hair was longer and the angles of his face a bit softer and more rounded, but Stiles could clearly see Miguel in the features of the young man in these photos. There were almost no pictures of the brother and sister together. Most of the photos had only one or the other of them standing in front of something, or caught in some awkwardly compromising expression or position, making it likely that the two siblings had been the lone photographers in this particular set of memories.

Stiles flipped through the few dozen photos, watching the siblings age incrementally through the lens of the camera, the woman's hair style changing twice.  When he hit the end however, Miguel was still clearly much younger than he was now and Stiles found nothing that bridged the gap in time to the present. It was as if the box were a time capsule, cut off at a certain point with nothing more beyond that having been worth recording.

As he reached the end of the photos, Stiles also began to realize, albeit seriously belatedly, that this box was clearly one of Miguel's personal belongings, which he probably had no business poking through. He was just about to replace the photos when a terse, angry voice from behind him made him almost jump out of his skin.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Stiles jerked in surprise, accidentally scattering the photos across the box and the floor as they slipped out of his fingers.  He twisted around to find a very irate looking Miguel glaring down at him from the doorway of the small room. _Oh crap._

"Sorry, uh, I, um... there was a block, and I mean, it was out a little..." Stiles scrambled to pick up the pictures he'd scattered and put them away properly, his flustered attempt at explanation not finding a proper start or making much sense.

Miguel grabbed him by the back of the shirt, yanking him away from his attempt to rectify what he'd done and dragging him bodily to his feet. The sudden movement made Stiles drop the photos he'd started to pick up all over again, the smiling face of the dark haired woman staring up at him from the floor at his feet for a moment before he was spun around and slammed into the wall by the door, faced now with a very _un_ -smiling Miguel.

The mechanic was even stronger than he looked and Stiles squirmed ineffectively against his grip. He didn't seriously try to break away because he knew that would only exacerbate the situation at this juncture. Much previous experience with getting shoved around by bigger boys in high school had taught him that.

"Look, man, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to be going through your stuff... well, I mean, not the stuff you didn't say I could go through anyway. I was -" Stiles' attempt at explanation was made more difficultly when Miguel's forearm jammed across his throat, cutting down on his air supply.

"Okay, _ooookay_ , now I can't breathe. Ease up, big guy, ease up. Geez, over reaction, much?" Stiles choked out, struggling a little more earnestly now. "I'm sorry, I was just looking for magazines, okay? Like you said!"

Distinctly un-placated, Miguel glowered at him from a few inches away, which, honestly, would have been hot if it wasn't also kind of scary at the moment. "Which you thought I might have _under_ my _bed?"_ he demanded incredulously.

Stiles blinked at him. "Um... yeah?" he said slowly, thinking the reasons why pretty obvious.

Miguel did not appear to think the same. He jammed his arm up harder under Stiles' chin, making the younger man squeak and struggle up onto his toes as his eyes watered from the pressure and lack of oxygen. "What were you really looking for?" he demanded.

"N-Nothing!" Stiles tried to get out, wanting to protest that he hadn't been looking for stuff to steal or whatever Miguel thought he was up to, but he couldn't get enough air. He seriously couldn't breathe and his brain was flooding his body with a yammering of panicked signals to that effect.

Grabbing Miguel's arm and yanking while he twisted his head away, Stiles threw himself sideways in an attempt to wrench out of the other man's grip. His back found the open air of the doorway, sending him stumbling backwards. Miguel caught at him as he fell away. Stiles flailed, striking a mostly unintentional glancing blow to the mechanic's shoulder. Miguel hit back instinctively, the punch catching Stiles upside the head and putting him down, hard.

Stiles landed in a sprawl on the floor of the outer room.  He narrowly avoided bashing his head on one of the empty store shelves, but barely noticed around the ringing pain emanating from his throbbing cheekbone.

"Why are you really here?" Miguel demanded, standing over him with clenched fists and fixing him with a livid glare.

"What do you mean, why am I here?" Stiles truly didn't understand the point of the question. "You're fixing my jeep, dude, remember?!" He rubbed his hurting face, unable to quite comprehend how things had gone so wrong so quickly or why Miguel was suddenly acting so weird and unreasonable. He understood the anger burning in those dark eyes just fine, however.

Fearing that this was about to turn into a beating, Stiles scrambled desperately backwards on his elbows when Miguel approached, crab-crawling until he ran into the shelves behind him and could go no farther. He cast about desperately for something he could use to defend himself, but there wasn't anything in reach besides a few dusty bags of candy, and _death by Twizzlers_ was not really much of a fear-inducing threat.

"Whoa, whoa, let's just calm down and breathe for a minute, okay? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, honest, I didn't mean any harm," he pleaded.  He cringed, arm instinctively curling over his head when Miguel stooped towards him, but the bigger man simply grabbed him by his shirtfront and dragged him back to his feet.  To Stiles' surprise, Miguel proceeded to roughly pat him down, checking his pockets but not taking anything.

"Hey, uh... so, this is weird... you wanna tell me what's going on, because - ow!" Stiles broke off as he was spun around none too gently.

Holding him by the scruff of his neck and shoulder, Miguel half dragged, half forced Stiles across the store and out through the door.  Releasing him with a shove, he all but threw him against the side of his jeep. 

"Get out," the mechanic ordered darkly. His gaze darted around their surroundings as if searching for other expected threats.

Stiles looked incredulously at his gutted jeep and the engine parts scattered across the tarp.  He spread his arms wide in exasperation. "How the hell am I supposed to do that?!  Be reasonable!!"

Miguel disappeared inside the station, and Stiles hoped he was going away to cool off, but after a minute the other man returned, now carrying the shotgun that Stiles had seen him with the night before. A cold chill iced through Stiles' stomach when the gun leveled at him. His eyes widened, hands automatically going up. _Holy crap, it was just his luck to end up trapped in the middle of nowhere with a gun-toting psycho._

"I said _get out_ ," Miguel repeated through clenched teeth, finger resting on the trigger.  Stiles' father had always told him you didn't put your finger on the trigger unless you were prepared to pull it. Stiles wasn't sure if Miguel had been trained the same way, but he hoped not to find out.  

"So you did," Stiles agreed, swallowing around the suddenly urgent dryness of his mouth and trying to keep his voice even. "And trust me, I would really love to, but my car's in like, a million pieces, dude. What do you want me to do?!"

Miguel cocked his weapon. "Start walking."

Stiles goggled at him, hands gesticulating wildly in disbelief. "Walk?! You said it's like, 60 miles to the nearest city, it's a billion degrees out there and I haven't seen another car go by since yesterday. I can't... dude, it's not possible; I won't make it."

"Not my problem," Miguel replied stonily, gun never wavering. "Go."

"Are you fucking crazy?!" Stiles shouted, nearly as angry now as scared. None of this made any sense.  "You want me gone, okay, let me use your phone and I'll find somebody to come get me, or -"

Miguel tipped the shotgun up a little and squeezed the trigger, sending the warning round over Stiles' head before quickly pumping another into the chamber and re-sighting on his chest.  "Go. Now."

Stiles ducked, scrambling around to the other side of his jeep for cover in the wake of the shot.  "Okay, okay!  Chill out, chill out!" 

Miguel followed him around the vehicle and Stiles quickly backed away some more, the other man's presence driving him out from under the shadow of the station's overhang, towards the road. Stiles blinked under the sudden intensity of the sun, but was left with no choice other than to stumble out onto the deserted, well-baked asphalt.

"Can I at least get my hat?!" he shouted at the man whom he was now convinced was some kind of lunatic.  In answer, Miguel blasted another shot into the ground by his feet.  That got Stiles moving pretty quickly. He didn't want to press his luck by finding out whether Miguel was crazy enough to actually shoot him or not. "Okay, OKAY!  FINE!" he seethed, scrambling away as fast as he could and wishing there was more cover out here. There were trees up the hills, but none by the road in this stretch.

Shoulders tense as if expecting a bullet at any moment, he jogged away as fast as he could, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder until he was finally out of range, the gas station dwindled to toy size in the distance behind him. Then the heat and exertion caught up with him all at once as it finally overpowered his flight reflex and he bent double, gripping his knees and gasping for breath as perspiration ran down his face and stung his eyes.

Straightening up after a moment and wiping his face, Stiles tried to pretend that perspiration was the only thing making his eyes sting. The truth was he was so mad and frustrated he could have cried. That wasn't going to help anything, however. He needed to keep moving. He couldn't go back, so his only choice now was to do as Miguel had said; to try to walk his way out and hope to God that some passing car might eventually show up and take mercy on him.

\----

Several hours later, that had still not happened. Stiles _was_ crying now and he didn't even care because his life just totally sucked, okay?  He was so hot and thirsty his head was swimming. His throat and nasal passages felt dry and raw from breathing the hot, arid air and his lack of medication was only serving to worsen his emotional state.  

He'd removed his tee and used it to cover his head, rolling down the sleeves of his over shirt and buttoning it up against the scorching sun.  He felt kind of like Iron Man in the desert, and he tried to tell himself he'd get through this, but the problem was he knew there were no helicopters coming, no one who would be looking for him. Not until it was much too late. Hell, nobody even knew where he _was,_ which was his own damn fault of course, as usual.

He knew the sun would eventually go down, even now the shadows were beginning to lengthen; but he had no water, no idea where to find any, and no real hope of being picked up or of reaching civilization before dehydration eventually overcame him. He was generally a fairly optimistic soul, but right now he was practically keeling over from heat exhaustion and his spirits were in the toilet.

Stiles snuffled and angrily wiped his throbbing eyes, trying not to keep wasting precious moisture with tears, but the truth was he was pretty sure at this point that he was going to die out here. His Dad would never know what had happened to him and Scott would find some way to blame himself.  Would they guess something bad had befallen him?  Or would they all just think he ran away rather than face returning?  Perhaps they would suppose him cruel enough to intentionally leave them forever in doubt like that as the years passed by, while all the while his bones were out here, bleaching in the desert and turning into a tourist attraction in this God-forsaken armpit of hell.

The unexpected, growing sound of a motor approaching from behind him sent a sudden, desperate thrill through his flagging body. He spun around towards the sound, excitement pumping through him in dizzying waves as he hurried out into the middle of the road, desperately waving his arms.  He was taking no chances that whoever was coming might not stop.

"Hey!  Hey!" He croaked as he flapped his arms at the approaching truck.  Then his relief faltered abruptly, fear and uncertainty beginning to creep back in when he realized he recognized the modified pickup / tow truck. It was from the station. It was Miguel's.

Stiles scrambled back off the road, hesitantly backing away as the vehicle pulled to a stop when it came level with him. He didn't know what to expect and his heart rate accelerated, the wild fluxes in adrenaline taxing his already worn out body and setting his hands to trembling.

Miguel was driving with the windows down and he looked across at Stiles through the opening for a moment in silence. "Get in," was all he finally said.

Stiles hesitated, shifting from foot to foot and rubbing his palms on the thighs of his jeans in indecision as he tried to decide whether whatever Miguel might possibly want to do to him could be worse than slowly dying of heat stroke and dehydration.  "Why should I?"

Miguel raised his eyebrows slightly. "Because you don't want to die?" he hazarded, "and I have water."

Both arguments were valid and the latter was practically irresistible to Stiles at this point. He was so thirsty he probably would have sold his soul for a drink. Moving almost before he'd consciously made the decision, Stiles crossed around the idling truck and climbed in the passenger side.  

There was indeed a mostly full bottle of water sitting in the cup holder between the seats, condensation beading on its plastic skin and making it look practically angelic. It wasn't cold any longer, but it was blessedly cool and wet and Stiles downed the entire thing in one long, continuous swallow. He then played nervously with the bottle as Miguel pulled a u-turn in the middle of the deserted road and drove them both back towards the station. He couldn't help feeling again just how _alone_ he was out here.

"Thanks, um... you know, if it wasn't drugged or anything... in that case not so thanks," he mumbled a bit anxiously, gaze darting between the bottle he was twisting about in his hands and the man sitting beside him.

Miguel looked honestly baffled and incredulous at that suggestion.  "Why would I drug you?"

Stiles looked at him side-long.  He pulled the shirt off his head and used it to wipe his face before resting it on his leg.  He shrugged, not really sure himself. "To make it easier to bury me in the desert?  Or, uh, have your wicked way with me?  I don't know, man! You're the crazy person."

Miguel somehow managed to look both amused and annoyed at the same time. "Stiles, I'm not going to kill you or - or rape you, for God's sake."

"Then why did you come after me?  What do you want?  You realize you forgot to take my wallet?" Stiles was trying to sound glib, but his voice was too quiet and his grip on the empty water bottle a little too tight. His hands were still trembling from heat exhaustion and nerves. Miguel's brows furrowed further as if realizing for the first time that his companion was truly scared of him.   

"I realized I'm an idiot," Miguel muttered a bit abashedly through his teeth, staring at the road ahead.  "I figured out what you meant... about why you were looking around under my bed."

Stiles wondered if he was imagining it, or if there really was a faint hint of rosy blush dusting the other man's well-defined cheeks. He blinked in surprise. "It took you that long?" he blurted. "Oh my God, dude, where do you usually hide your porn?!  No, wait, I don't want to know, especially if it's _out in the barn behind the decapitated corpses_ or something."

Miguel shot him an odd look. "You have a very disturbing mind."

"Oh yeah? Well I'm not the guy waving guns at people, giving off serial killer vibes and conveniently living in the most isolated spot on earth," Stiles retorted.

"I'm not a serial killer!"

"Well I wouldn't expect you to _admit_ it..."  

"Holy fuck... look, I was... I was mad, okay?  I over-reacted. I don't like people going through my stuff."

"So I gathered."  Stiles' tone said exactly how lame an excuse he found that to be.

"Finding you snooping like that was... disturbing.  When I cooled down, I decided maybe you did make an honest mistake, and... and there's no way you could have walked your way out of here. I couldn't just let you die," Miguel said defensively. "Although I'm seriously reconsidering that option," he added.

Stiles revived a bit on the drive and when they got back to the station without incident, he was reluctantly willing to concede that his host might not have immediate murder on his mind, but he was still uncomfortable with the situation. Maybe Miguel was just bi-polar or something, but he didn't really want to go through another bout like that again.

"Soooo ... you know, if you don't really want me around, I can just call somebody to come get my car," he suggested hesitantly.  "You know, like you wanted me to at first?  So I can just, like, get out of your hair?  Um... but, like, of course I'll pay you for what you already did, you know?"

Miguel shrugged, his expression heavily guarded, as if he had some call to be wary of Stiles rather than the other way around. "Sure. If that's what you want to do, go ahead."

With a cheerful and completely fake smile, Stiles let himself into the station and picked up the phone on the counter. He lifted it to his ear and something felt immediately wrong, but he was so used to cell phones that it took him a long moment to realize exactly what was the matter.  There was no dial tone.

An unpleasant chill went through him, informing him that he'd seen way too many horror movies. Stiles jiggled the receiver and tried pressing a few buttons without getting any response.  Miguel had followed him in and was just standing there, staring at him. Stiles swallowed.  "Um... it doesn't work," he said, gesturing to the phone.

Miguel did not look surprised.  "Hasn't since I started working here," he agreed instead. "I think something with the wires got screwed up in the fire and they never bothered to fix it, or maybe they just didn't want to keep paying for the service.  We always used the payphone outside if we needed to make a call, but -"

Stiles hurried outside before Miguel could finish or his own reason catch up with him. He looked around, feeling an almost claustrophobic sense of entrapment. Then he remembered the twisted wreck of metal and glass.

Miguel caught up with Stiles a few moments later as the younger man stood forlornly by the edge of the wrecked payphone he'd been pitching rocks at earlier. "I suppose it's too much to hope that this works anymore, either?" he asked morosely.

Miguel shook his head. "Nope. Those stupid kids I scared off the other night pealed out of here in such a hurry they ran it over. I was going to drive into town and report it, but then you showed up."

Stiles wiped his palms on his jeans again. "Okay... well, can I borrow your cell then?" he asked hopefully.

Miguel gave him a flat look. "Do you think I would be _driving into town_ to report the broken phone if I had a cell?  Don't you have one?"

Stiles shook his head, the reality of his situation settling on him like a queasy kind of calm. He was almost as completely isolated from the rest of the world as if he were on a deserted island. "No," he muttered. "I lost mine."

Miguel shrugged. "Well, that settles that, then. I guess you can't call anybody."

Stiles chewed his lip, eyeing Miguel suspiciously as they both retreated to the shade of the station once more.  "You suggested I make a call when I first got here, why would you do that if you knew the phones didn't work?" he asked, unable to keep a note of accusation out of his voice as he poured himself a glass of water from the cooler.

Miguel looked at him like he was mentally deficient. "Well I _assumed_ nobody in this day and age would be driving around these empty back roads without a cell phone. I mean, okay, I live here, but seriously, who _else_ uses pay phones anymore? I expected you to have your own, of course."

Stiles had to admit that made sense. "Okay, well, will you drive me into town, then?"

Miguel glanced out the window towards the slanting shadows outside.  "Yes, but not today. It'll be dark in a couple hours and the truck's lights are shit.  It's too dangerous to be driving around out here in the dark and I can't stay overnight in town. I can take you tomorrow."

Stiles still felt kind of suspicious, but he agreed. What other choice did he have?

Miguel headed back outside. Stiles remained inside and downed several more glasses of water, until his stomach ached and sloshed. A not unfamiliar sensation of semi-depressed fatigue finally drove him back outside in search of his long overdue medication.

He was surprised to find Miguel out there, bent over his gutted jeep and giving every appearance of continuing the work that had been interrupted earlier. He eyed the mechanic with no little confusion as he retrieved his pills from the car and took his usual dose. "Adderall," he explained simply when he saw Miguel glance over at him. "I have ADHD." It was probably an over-share, but he did that sometimes when he was uneasy.  

Miguel's expressive eyebrows gave a little lift upward. "Well, that explains a lot," he remarked before returning his attention to the jeep.

Stiles scowled at his back. He didn't see how Mr. Titanic-Mood-Swings-That-Involve-Firearms had any right to comment. "Why are you still working on my car?"

Miguel shrugged without turning.  "Why not?  There's nothing better to do. Besides, maybe I can get it fixed and back together for you and then you can drive yourself out of here."

It was Stiles' turn to raise his eyebrows.  "Oh. You think that's likely?"

Miguel paused, then kept working. "Not very," he said honestly. "At least not tonight, I lost too much of the day, but I might as well try."

"Oh. Um. Okay." Stiles had to admit that Miguel's continued efforts on his jeep went a long way towards making him feel a little less like he'd gotten trapped in some kind of _Silent Hill_ spin off. If Miguel was planning on eating his brains in the night, he probably wouldn't keep working on his car, right? Maybe the guy really did just overreact.  He obviously didn't spend a lot of time around people, maybe he was just awkward by nature.

Stiles meant to just sit down in the corner and rest for a minute, but exhaustion pulled him under despite the stimulants he'd taken. The next thing he knew Miguel was shaking him awake, telling him dinner was ready and asking if he wanted any.

He missed lunch today due to everything that had happened, but freshly awakened, Stiles felt groggy and almost hung-over. He wouldn't have thought he was hungry, except that Miguel had brought the food over with him from the diner and the tantalizing scent of macaroni and cheese quickly awakened Stiles' appetite.  The rest of him followed a little more slowly, but after several sleepy mouthfuls of the delicious cheesy mush he began to revive.

Stiles wolfed down the mounded plate Miguel gave him and asked if there were seconds. There wasn't, but Miguel obligingly went and heated up another batch for him, leaving Stiles a full mug of cold water and a bottle of coke, with instructions to finish both. By the time he returned, Stiles was feeling much more alert and worked through his second plate a bit more slowly, but with no less zeal.

Miguel, already finished with his own supper, watched him with a faint look of amusement. "Well, I guess you've decided I'm not trying to drug you anymore," he commented.

Stiles grinned up at him, feeling much more companionable and forgiving now that he had a full stomach, his proper dose of medication and a nice nap. "Well, I figure if you were going to do something awful to me, you probably would have done it already," he said practically as he shoveled down his food. He was not overlooking the fact that his companion had a potentially dangerous side, but he felt that was fairly true of everyone under the right circumstances.  "So, either you're a _really_ twisted serial killer playing some kind of incredibly unfathomable game with me, or you're just a bit manic depressive and not great with people. Going with the latter since it doesn't leave me dead. Can I have another coke?"

Miguel actually grinned at this, albeit a little bemusedly.  "You're pretty strange," he observed as he handed Stiles the fresh Coca Cola bottle.

Stiles gave him a wry look as he twisted off the metal cap. "Pot. Kettle. Blackness."  He waved the bottle in a gesture that seemed to say he couldn't be bothered to pull himself from his meal long enough to fully complete the adage. "You know." He pressed the cool bottle to the slight bruise forming on the side of his face where Miguel had hit him earlier, the chill feeling good.

Miguel nodded as if he found that a fair point. He frowned a little when he saw what Stiles was doing with the bottle, a guilty look flittering across his features for a moment before he hid it away and found a reason to busy himself elsewhere.

As Stiles was finishing up, Miguel glanced at the old clock on the station wall and disappeared into his bedroom for minute before returning with the little portable TV Stiles had seen in there earlier.  He set it up on a box near the counter, extended the antenna and wrapped a metal wire around it that was hanging off the edge of the desk.  Stiles realized the wire ran across the desk and up the adjacent wall. It seemed to be there for exactly this purpose. Miguel had clearly jury-rigged this method of antenna-boosting to allow him better reception on the small set. A minute or two of fiddling with the little TV eventually tuned in an only slightly distorted baseball game, which Miguel must have known was happening because he appeared to have been looking for it.

Leaning against the wall and crossing his legs, Miguel looked over at Stiles as if daring him to complain about either the viewing choice or the fact that he was watching it in the outer section of the store, which would potentially make it difficult for Stiles to go back to sleep until he was done. He needn't have worried. Stiles had already grabbed his pillow and blanket and come over to join him. Sitting on his pillow like a cushion and leaning against the waded up blanket, Stiles settled down beside his host, squinting eagerly at the small set to make out the teams on the field.  "Oh, hey, Tigers vs. Twins, I totally forgot that was today. Turn it up!" he urged.

Miguel seemed pleased by the reaction and complied, cranking the volume a little higher and turning the small screen more to the left so they both had a good view.

During a commercial break, Miguel left and returned with a small tube of lotion which he offered Stiles for his sunburned nose and chin.

"Oh, cool, thanks," he said easily as he applied it to the tender skin. He'd been able to protect most of himself with his shirt, so it wasn't too bad. He'd definitely had worse.

Miguel just nodded, looking a little guilty again but not saying anything. The game came back on, sparing them any further awkwardness. 

"You like baseball?" Stiles hazarded a somewhat obvious question while the man at bat was walked to first base. He remembered the baseball cards in Miguel's shoebox, although those looked to have come from his somewhat younger years. "I like baseball," he added without being asked.  "Oh, oh, yeah baby!" he broke off when a new play on the screen captured his attention. "Come on, come on... YES!" he pumped his fist as the Twins got in a run and loaded another base.

Miguel grinned wryly at him. "Hey, you're rooting for the wrong team."

Stiles gave him a puckish expression. "Says you. You a Tigers fan?"

Miguel just shrugged. "They're okay."

Stiles shook his head. "Your enthusiasm staggers me."

Miguel eyed him. "Well they're not exactly the Yankees, but they've been doing pretty well this season."

"The _Yankees?_ " Stiles made a face."Like _they're_ a standard for anything. Now if you'd said the Mets..."

This time Miguel made a face. "The Mets haven't won a Championship since _1986_ ," he pointed out.

"Which only means they're due," Stiles protested. "They're finding their stride!"

 "Uh huh," Miguel said skeptically.

"What about that amazing double play last year, huh? Did you not see that?  It was a thing of beauty man. _Beauty,_ " Stiles said passionately. 

Miguel grinned a little and inclined his head. "Yeah, okay, that was pretty good."

"Right?" Stiles agreed excitedly, going on to recount a lengthy list of his other favorite plays by the team in question, the talk comfortably ebbing and flowing around the action happening in the current game. 

"I get it. I get it, Stiles, you _really_ like the Mets," Miguel observed during another commercial break, his eyes twinkling with an amusement that made him almost border on seeming friendly in a way that was completely at odds with his behavior earlier.  

"Dude, you have no idea," Stiles sighed. "If only they could get it together, you know? I think the best Christmas gift I ever got, well, aside from an Xbox that one year, was an actual baseball from the 1986 game, signed by all the players. I totally flipped out. My dad is awesome. I mean, it's not like they were in the ultra ridiculously expensive category, but still a _lot_ more than I'd ever expect as a gift, you know?  But he got a really good deal 'cause he knew a guy who knew a guy and, well, it's a long story, but that was so cool of him."

Miguel nodded. "It was," he agreed genuinely.  "Older balls are harder to find, collectors often don't want to let them go. If they ever manage to win another series, it will be even more valuable I imagine."  He was intentionally being a bit provoking, but Stiles didn't rise to the bait this time.

"Yeah," he murmured softly instead, looking unexpectedly both sad and wistful. A moment later, he shook off the odd melancholia again and changed the subject. "So, you been to any games, live?"

Miguel had, and they traded baseball stories for a while in between watching the game.  Cheering the good plays, groaning over the bad and making mocking commentary about amusing blunders made for a nice, neutral conversation. Stiles was perfectly capable of carrying on the conversation all by himself, but Miguel put in every now and again.  The older man didn't share much in the way of personal stories initially, but Stiles' constant, encouraging prattle eventually coaxed a few anecdotes from him.  It was interesting because the mechanic seemed almost a different person when he spoke of the past , telling of his mother zealously defending his right to cheer for the "wrong" team when he was six and the home run ball he caught when he was 14.

Talking about the past must not be something Miguel did very often, however, because he clammed up pretty abruptly after sharing those few snippets, acting as if he felt he'd said too much. Stiles didn't press him or let the silence turn awkward. Instead, he jumped back in with another story of his own involving Scott and an amusingly awkward situation they'd ended up in due to Scott's generally horrifying lack of interest in this particular sport.  Miguel slowly relaxed again and Stiles got the feeling that behind the other man's reticence, he was in fact starved for company and conversation. Unsurprising, if he'd been out here alone for months. That right there was enough to make anyone act a little crazy, Stiles decided.

Miguel broke out microwave popcorn somewhere around the 5th inning and by the sixth they were throwing it at the TV when the umpire made a highly dubious call, or at least _Stiles_ was and Miguel just laughed instead of stopping him.  Stiles was a little surprised by what a good time he was having.  His companion was almost as into baseball as he was, and he greatly enjoyed talking to someone who could argue minutia with him. As the evening progressed, the friendly comfort of shared interest slowly wore away a good portion of the awkwardness and tension that had been created by the events earlier in the day. 

Stiles still wasn't entirely sure what to make of Miguel to be honest, but by the time the game was over he found that at least he no longer felt anxious about the idea of sleeping under the same roof with him. Even if Miguel _did_ take off to prowl around in the dark for a while with the shotgun again before bed.  In some universe that was surely a perfectly normal action. Nope. He wasn't worried at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know about as much about baseball as I know about fixing cars, so please forgive any hugely stupid errors I may have made, 'kay? ... and yes, sorry, I was borrowing a bit more from Dylan and Hoechlin than Stiles and Derek on the baseball thing, but hey, it's an AU, I can do that. :) 
> 
> Don't judge Derek _too_ harshly for the way he acted in this chapter. He does have some pretty significant reasons and we'll get to know them eventually.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short chapter this time because I needed a good place to break. If all goes as planned, the next chapter should end up being fairly... interesting. :) I also made a little manip of the boys working together that you'll find further down the page. :)

Stiles woke early the next morning, although apparently not earlier than Miguel whom he could hear moving quietly about outside. Staring up at the cracked ceiling of the station, Stiles considered his options for the day ahead. He'd asked Miguel to take him into town today, but weirdly, he was no longer sure he wanted to go. He'd been so stressed out yesterday he hadn't been thinking clearly. Now, in the fresh light of a new day certain facts and details were clamoring for his attention and attracting his interest.

Miguel had freaked him out for a bit, no denying it, but with a little distance and perspective on what had happened, Stiles was beginning to find the situation more interesting than frightening.  If Miguel were consistently angry and dangerous that could just be his personality, but the thing was that he _wasn't_. Stiles had seen glimpses of a different side of him too often to ignore.

Something was going on with Miguel; something more than just mood swings and bad people skills.  The mechanic's deliberate isolation, his hidden box of memories and violent paranoia were intriguing.  Details and impressions spun around in Stiles' head, the familiar, siren song of loose threads and mismatched fragments waiting to be connected into something that made sense filling him with a tingling excitement that would have had Scott rolling his eyes and groaning if he were there. There was a mystery here; Stiles could feel it in his bones and he rarely walked away from a mystery.

Finally roused by the smell of frying bacon, Stiles shuffled out of the station with a yawn.  He found Miguel making breakfast in the diner. As usual, the other man had made enough for both of them.

They ate in silence until Miguel finally broke it. "I can take you into town after you're done," he said simply.  He was looking at his food rather than at Stiles and his expression gave nothing away. "I'll need to report the broken phone and the vandalism while I'm there, so we should get an early start.  Sorry I can't bring your car, but I can drop you at Tyson's garage, they're pretty good and should be able to help you out."

Stiles twirled his fork between his fingers and rubbed his ear.  "Yeah... about that... I was kind of thinking... if you're still willing to fix it, maybe... maybe we could just stick with the original plan instead? I'll try to stay out of your hair. I took my meds this morning and people tell me that usually makes me less annoying," he said candidly and without shame.

Interesting mystery aside, the plain truth of the matter was that he'd been doing the math in his head and any other course of action was not really financially feasible for him at this point. He had two credit cards in his name, but both of them had a pretty low limit because his dad wanted to make sure he didn't get himself in trouble. Accidentally running up a hefty bill on his dad's credit card by not realizing how much his MMORPG in-game purchases were adding up to when he was younger probably had something to do with that. Considering his dad was paying the bills so he didn't have to work while he went to college, Stiles had no complaints about the rules.  It kind of put him in a spot now, though.  If Miguel refused to let him stay, he didn't know how he was going to make his cash and available credit stretch enough to pay for the work Miguel had already done, plus staying in town, plus getting what would no doubt be a very expensive tow from here to there, not to mention whatever the new garage would end up charging him to finish the repair job. The cost of having someone else do the repairs alone might be more than he could cover. He'd have to call his dad, and wouldn't _that_ just be the perfect start to a conversation he already didn't want to have?

Miguel looked surprised by the suggestion, a confused mix of emotions flittering behind his eyes that left Stiles unsure whether his companion was pleased, suspicious, or just startled. Trying to read the man was enough to give one a headache, although the view was certainly nice.

Miguel seemed to be having some kind of internal debate, but eventually he shrugged. "Okay, I guess we could do that. _If_ you stay out of trouble and don't go poking around," he added with a meaningfully stern look.

Stiles nodded earnestly holding up his hand to indicate scout's honor, even though he'd never actually been a scout.  "Best behavior, promise. You don't come at me with a shotgun and I won't mess around with anything you don't want me to. But... uh... maybe you can tell me, like, where the safe zones are?  And like... how much longer we're talking about?  Because I don't do great with the boredom thing. I might die. Seriously, I might, and that would be pretty awkward 'cause then you'd have to do something with the body so people didn't get the wrong idea."

Miguel was looking at him with an incredulous half-squint he seemed to be perfecting just for Stiles. "Yeah. That would probably be bad," he said dryly. "Don't think I could fit any more bodies out back. I'd have to find a new place to bury you."

"Oh my god, was that a joke? He jokes! There is hope for you yet," Stiles said with a grin, clapping Miguel on the shoulder.  "That... uh, it was a joke, right?" he added with a slightly more nervous expression.

Miguel rolled his eyes and got up off his stool. "Wouldn't you like to know," he said instead of answering, giving Stiles a smile that showed a little too much teeth.

Stiles fumbled a bit as he got off his own stool, brushing his ear again and tucking one hand under his armpit as if not knowing what else to do with it. "Yeah, so, that probably shouldn't be so hot," he said aloud before he could think to filter his thoughts.

Not appearing to know how to respond to that, Miguel turned away, focusing on gathering up their dirty dishes.

Left at loose ends as Miguel stacked the dishes and put away the food, Stiles started picking at one of the cracked stool covers, absently peeling off a long strip of vinyl without really being cognizant of what he was doing.

Miguel grabbed his hand, stopping him. The grip wasn't painful, just firm. And warm. And it kind of did something to Stiles' insides that he tried not to show. Apparently, being somewhat uncertain just how dangerous Miguel might or might not be had exactly _zero_ impact on how attractive he found him.

"Can you _not_ go five minutes without wrecking something?" Miguel asked with exasperation that was very faintly tinged with amusement, or at least that's what Stiles hoped it was. 

"Um... yes?" the tonal question mark at the end of his response probably didn't help Stiles' case. "Sorry, I told you I don't do the inaction thing well.  Maybe I should do the dishes?" He tucked both hands under his armpits as if to keep them out of trouble. He wasn't sure why he kept making such an incredible idiot out of himself except that this _always_ happened when he was around people he found attractive. His entire high school experience with Lydia Martin being an excellent case study in this unfortunate phenomenon.  It was probably why his dating history was _still_ so abysmally small and uninteresting. Few people wanted to continue more than a casual acquaintance once they spent enough time with him - unless they were giant douches with ulterior motives, of course. This, he had come to understand this the hard way.  It was okay though. He told himself he was like the Mets. He'd find his stride eventually. He believed that. _Just not today, it seems._

"Okay," Miguel agreed to his offer to do the dishes. "Hell, if it will keep you out of trouble, when you're done how about you help me with the repairs? Another pair of hands might be useful and I can show you some stuff. If you're serious about continuing to nurse this car along, you should probably know some maintenance basics or it's going to keep costing you a fortune."  The offer was made in an off-hand tone that suggested the mechanic did not expect his companion to be interested in the proposition, but Stiles brightened visibly.

"Really?  Awesome!  That sounds great," he agreed enthusiastically.  Normally, mechanical things did not interest him all that much, but it was much better than having nothing to do. Besides, working closely with Miguel? He could definitely be down with that.

Most of the rest of the day was spent with Miguel working on the car and teaching Stiles as he did so. It ended up making the process slower rather than faster, but neither man seemed to mind. By the end of the day Stiles' hands, arms and formerly white tee were smudged with oil and dirt, but he felt accomplished and content in a way he'd not felt since before his world and his plans had all started sliding off their axis. 

Miguel was actually a very patient teacher. He seemed to enjoy sharing his craft with someone else and Stiles was surprised by how much the work had managed to engage his attention and focus. He knew he'd never be cut out for this profession, and would probably forget half of what he'd learned by the end of the week, but there was a certain element of puzzle solving and deductive work that went into the process that was not unappealing to him.

He tried to subtly work a little more information out of Miguel over the course of the day, but Miguel was good at being evasive and became tense whenever Stiles pressed a little too hard, so he eventually backed off, intending to put some thought into a better tact to take with his investigation.  He kind of liked being around Miguel and preferred not to make him close off.  

The engine was beginning to take shape once more, but the jeep was still more than half gutted when they finally knocked off for the evening.

That night, after dinner, when Stiles was settling down into his blanket roll, Miguel came over to him.  The shotgun resting against one shoulder signaled that he was about to go out for his nightly patrol, a habit Stiles was unconsciously finding less odd the longer he was here.  Stiles sat back up, curious at what the other man wanted.

"The repairs are taking a lot longer than I thought they would," Miguel admitted, regarding Stiles with a look of mild concern. "So, I was thinking, if you want, we can drive into town tomorrow. I really should report the vandalism soon and you can use a phone there to call anyone that might be worrying about you."

Stiles gave a little shrug, pulling one knee up to his chest and picking at the edge of the blanket with his fingers. "Well, I'm happy to ride along if you need to go, but I don't really need to call anybody.  No one's going to miss me, not for a while anyway."  He shrugged and shook his head, as if shaking off a cloud.  "Hm, maybe I shouldn't have said that, huh?" he remarked much more lightly, looking up at Miguel with a wry little smile. "What with me being in the company of a serial killer and all."

Miguel just rolled his eyes.

"What about you?" Stiles asked when it looked like his companion was about to leave.  "Do you really never get _any_ visitors out here?  No girlfriend ... boyfriend ... uh, or other friends or family wanting to check up on you?" He smiled brightly to hide his inner wince. _Smooth, Stilinski, real smooth._ "Doesn't it ever get lonely, all this time out here with no human contact?" he added quickly, trying to cover his poor attempt at sussing out Miguel's relational status and orientation with an equally poor attempt at flirting.

Miguel gave him a slightly suspicious look. "No," he said, the hint of coolness in his voice unpleasant after how relatively friendly he'd been all day. "I do quite fine by myself."  Turning away, he left to do his rounds before Stiles could think of anything else to say.

Stiles lay back down with a sigh, unsure if that reaction was Miguel soundly rebuffing his tentative advances, or if it was just Miguel being a signal-deaf clod, like usual. He hoped for the latter enough to think it might be worth trying again and maybe being a little less subtle. The guy was hot, okay?  Sure, he was a little mysterious, but that was kind of attractive too and he was probablynot _actually_ a serial killer either, which was another point in his favor.  They _were_ out here all alone, after all... if it was the perfect set up for a horror movie, then it was also the perfect set up for a porno. 

Minor problems with this nice little fantasy included the fact that Miguel seemed as sexually aware of him as if Stiles were a fence post, and he didn't know if the mechanic even liked guys to begin with. The odds were probably against him, but that wasn't going to keep Stiles from prodding until he found out. What else did he have to do?  Miguel had to be lonely and bored out here, right?  Granted, under normal circumstances Stiles wouldn't have realistically thought he could get anywhere with someone who looked like that, but he felt that the sheer lack of other options ought to give him at least a _bit_ of a chance. It wasn't like he was looking for something serious. A hot and dirty fling with a gorgeous, slightly crazy mechanic in the backside of nowhere would probably be more therapeutic than visiting the currently non-Rainbow Canyons. It would certainly be a lot more fun.

The problem with this train of thought was that Stiles had a very active imagination, so he was now envisioning all sorts of scenarios wherein Miguel somehow, improbably turned out to be insanely attracted to him and they had wildly hot sex in all sorts of ways. The fact that he'd never actually had wildly hot sex in any of those ways before in real life did nothing to dampen the arousal that the fantasies created, and Stiles quickly found he had a rather pressing issue that needed to be dealt with.

Not wanting to make a mess on the only blanket he had to use, Stiles slipped out of the station and around the back to where the bathrooms were for a little private time.  Unfortunately, he found the bathroom doors locked.  He'd gotten used to them being left open during the day, but realized with frustration that Miguel must lock them up at night.

Never let it be said, however, that Stiles Stilinski was not a resourceful problem solver.  It was very dark, but the night was clear and the moon almost full, giving just enough illumination for him to make out vague shapes in the blackness.  By now, he was familiar enough with the station in the daylight to know what the shapes were even without being able to make out details. There was a stand of trees off to the right of the shed, behind one of the broken down cars that Miguel used for spare parts.  The mass of shadows back there created an inviting sense of concealment.  Fairly throbbing with need and judging that it wouldn't take very long to solve his little problem, Stiles crept around the car and in between the scattered tree trunks. In the daylight, this would not be a very covert location, but at night, it was almost too dark for him to even see the trees he could feel around him, so it seemed private enough.

Leaning his back against a tree trunk, Stiles eased his erection free of the loose boxers he was wearing as sleep shorts. Taking himself in hand, he stroked quickly and firmly, indulging in semi-embarrassing fantasies of Miguel, here, in the darkness of the trees with him ... _pushing him up against the tree and kissing him... pushing him down onto the grass and fucking him..._

Stiles shifted against the tree, the rough bark making a soft rasp against his t-shirt and the dry ground underfoot crunching faintly. His breath hitched and he caught his lower lip between his teeth as the crest he was seeking swelled up to meet him. Just at that moment, he heard a rustle away to his right.  Alarmed by a shift of movement in the darkness and caught off guard at this very inopportune moment, Stiles came with a soft yelp.

The rustling grew immediately closer, as if drawn by the sound and a second later he was speared by the bright beam of a flashlight.  Stiles instinctively tried to retreat, but the tree was at his back and he merely thudded into it with an ungainly flail.  Momentarily blinded, it took him a few seconds to realize that it was Miguel on the other end of the flashlight. The mechanic had both flashlight and shotgun trained on him, but they dipped as he also recognized Stiles. He dropped the shotgun to his side completely, but kept the flashlight up, although no longer trained in the younger man's eyes.

Stiles in turn lowered the hands he'd instinctively raised in front of his face to block out the painfully sudden light, trying to blink back his night vision around the glaring, dancing circles temporarily burned onto his retina.  Suddenly, he realized he was still standing there, hanging out and completely exposed.  A hot flush raced up his throat to his cheeks and set his ears to burning. He scrambled clumsily to tuck himself away and pull his boxers back into order.

"Oh my God, oh my God, _OH MY GOD_ this is so embarrassing. What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on a guy like that?!"

Through the spots still swimming about in his vision, Stiles thought Miguel looked amused, but also perhaps sort of flustered. "I was on my way back, I thought I heard something over here and came to check.  What were _you_ doing out here?" he demanded defensively.

Stiles glared at him. "If you can't figure out what I was doing then you really are stupid," he snapped, only realizing after the words left his mouth that he probably should have just said he had had to pee. That would have covered the facts just as well and been far less humiliating. _Whelp, too late now. The Stiles Stilinski superpower of making things as awkward as possible struck yet again. This was why he never got laid._

Miguel just stared at him for a moment and then jerked the flash light away abruptly as if belatedly trying to either give Stiles privacy, or un-see what he'd seen, although it was too late for either.

They returned to the store together in silence, Stiles' face still flaming in the cool night air. It wasn't the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to him, but it was embarrassing enough. How heavily Miguel had been featuring in his fantasies just now made it difficult to look at him. Stiles was irrationally worried that if he looked at him, Miguel would _know_ and this wasn't exactly the way Stiles wanted to approach the subject. _Damn it to hell, couldn't he have just come back a few minutes later?_

Once inside, Stiles wordlessly stomped off to his corner.  He curled up in his blanket and tried to ignore Miguel completely, but he couldn't resist stealing a glance in the other man's direction once he felt sure Miguel wasn't paying attention to him any longer.  Miguel locked up and then turned the station lights off, using the flashlight to cover the short distance between the door and his bedroom.

Stiles watched him pass by in the dim light.  He squinted curiously when he thought he saw something, but Miguel was there and then gone too quickly for him to be sure. Was it a trick of shadows and his own wishful imagination?  Or was the crotch of Miguel's jeans looking a little strained? 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer than usual chapter to balance out the short one last time. :) Quite a lot of development happening this chapter and a few telling glimpses into small parts of the mysteries surrounding both boys. Only the tip of the iceberg, but we're getting there.

Breakfast was surprisingly non-awkward the next morning. Miguel was either pretending last night hadn't happened, or he had truly already forgotten it. Either way suited Stiles just fine. Feelings of self-consciousness and embarrassment could be intense in the moment, but he usually shrugged them off pretty easily afterwards if nothing continued to feed them.

To be honest, there were many times when people seemed to think he _should_ be embarrassed about something he'd said or done and he didn't even get why, so maybe he was just a little deficient in that department. Matt had certainly seemed to think so, but then Matt was _the-giant-douche-who-shall-not-be-named_ , so his opinion didn't count.  Last night _had_ been plenty embarrassing even for him, no doubt about it, but Miguel wasn't treating him differently and so he decided to consider it no big deal unless he found out otherwise.

They had just finished breakfast and started to work on the jeep again when the rare sound of an approaching motor drew their attention towards the road. A few minutes later, a police car pulled into the station. It parked in front of the diner and two officers in tan uniforms got out.

Both Stiles and Miguel stopped what they were doing and turned towards the newcomers.  Stiles leaned against his jeep, automatically noting the officer's names and ranks from their insignia.  The senior officer was a tall, elderly black man named Bertrand, and his partner was a slightly rotund, slightly sunburned white man named Landers.

Miguel wiped his grease stained hands on a rag. He gave the officers a small nod of greeting as they approached, but Stiles could see tension in his shoulders. "Can I help you?" he asked them.

Officer Bertrand gave him a small return nod, looking between Stiles and Miguel. "Hey, Miguel. Who's your friend?" he inquired in a half friendly, half professionally prying manner with which Stiles was very familiar.

Stiles gave a jaunty little wave, filing away the information that the officers knew Miguel at least enough to expect to find him here. "Stiles Stilinski, stranded motorist and lucky finder of brilliant desert mechanics," he answered for himself.

Bertrand raised his eyebrows a bit and Landers glanced over at Miguel as if assessing the truth of this statement.

"I am fixing his car," Miguel said simply, giving his head a jerk towards the partially disassembled vehicle in question.

Stiles' eyes narrowed slightly as he eyed his companion. Miguel sounded... _different._ He was acting different too.The cops seemed to accept the explanation, however, and moved on about their business.

"We got a report of a crazy man out here, shooting at folks with a shotgun," Bertrand said in his mildly bland, yet pointed manner.  "Either of you know anything about that?"

Miguel's stance tightened further, his lips quirking grimly. His head stayed half-bowed, either respectful or withdrawn depending on how you read it. "Red pickup and black hummer full of wasted kids?"

Stiles stiffened at this as he put the pieces together, feeling suddenly indignant on Miguel's behalf. "Wait, those delinquents come out here, totally vandalizethe station, and they have the nerve to go complaining to the _police_ because you had to scare them off?!"

"You were here, Mr. Stilinski?" Bertrand asked, proving he had a good head for names as he un-pocketed and flipped open his notebook.

"Huh? Oh, uh, no, sorry." Stiles realized he was going to confuse the situation if he wasn't careful. "I showed up the next day. My car broke down, Miguel gave me a tow and told me what had happened."

"Okay, Miguel, how about you walk us through what happened?" Landers suggested.

Miguel did. He explained that he'd been woken by the sound of the approaching vehicles. He'd stayed inside as long as they weren't causing any harm, but when the rocks started flying and the window shattered he'd gone out to warn them off.  The intoxicated and probably high youths did not comply with his warning, instead they started throwing things in his direction until he fired into the air a couple of times. Then they scrambled to their cars and took off so fast they hit the payphone in the dark on their way out.

He showed the officers the boarded up window and the wrecked phone.  The tire tracks had faded with the passage of the past few days, but they had cut deeply enough into the earth near the smashed payphone for the grooves to still be visible.  Miguel maintained that he had not shot _at_ the youths or their vehicles, merely into the air and into the ground to frighten them away.

Stiles grimaced slightly at the recollections this brought to mind, but they flittered away again easily. He was more concerned with making sure the police gave Miguel a fair shake. He felt a bit guilty for being the reason his new friend had not yet been able to make it into town to report the incident himself.

The officers interrupted Miguel several times to get dates, times and other details. They wanted to see the shotgun, which apparently was registered to his employer, and had him repeat parts of his story several times, but to Stiles' relief they seemed fairly inclined to believe him.

"Called it," Landers went as far as to remark in semi-satisfaction to his partner as they exited the station. He was speaking to Bertrand, but didn't seem to care if Miguel or Stiles heard him. "Told you there was a reason we didn't hear a peep of a complaint until Meckler senior came back from Vegas and got a load of his busted up hummer."

Bertrand gave him a wry look that indicated the two men had in fact been in agreement on the topic, but they'd had a job to do nevertheless. He said nothing in response, but Stiles gathered from the exchange that the complaint had probably been the result of one or more of the kids involved panicking and lying to their parents about exactly how and why they'd smashed up their car.

"What about you, Miguel?  Why didn't _you_ report it?" Bertrand asked genially, clearly a master of pointed friendliness. 

"Couldn't call," Miguel gestured back towards the broken phone.

"And then I kind of showed up and monopolized his time. We were actually gonna drive into town today to do it, but I guess now we don't have to, huh?" Stiles put in, his tone matching Bertrand's level of professionally friendly. 

Stiles' upbringing meant that he had a natural inclination to be at ease in the presence of law enforcement and these men seemed fairly laid back, but Miguel was acting so differently around them that it made Stiles feel a little protective all the same. The mechanic's whole attitude and demeanor had changed from the moment Bertrand and Landers had arrived. He was all quiet, respectful _yes sirs_ and _no sirs_ and even his speech patterns had altered. Either Stiles was going crazy, or Miguel had suddenly acquired both a subtle accent and a much more tenuous command of the English language. 

Bertrand inclined his head slightly in response to Stiles' half-question before turning his attention back to the notes he was finishing up. "We'll let old man Winnemucca know he needs to get someone out here to assess the damage," he said somewhat distractedly. "If we have any more questions we'll be in touch."

Stiles bet the officers knew the names and business of at least half the people in their jurisdiction. It was a small town cop thing that made him think of home.

Before they left, the officers asked for their IDs, ostensibly in order to add both men's information to the statement they had given. Stiles knew he wasn't legally required to comply in this kind of situation, but he had no reason to refuse, so he retrieved his license from his wallet and handed it Landers. Landers did a double take and squinted at him a little incredulously before shaking his head and copying the information down into his notes.  Stiles mostly ignored him, well used to this reaction to his given name and much more interested in how tense Miguel had suddenly become.

Miguel pushed his hands into his pockets, voice impassive as he informed the officers that he'd lost his wallet and was waiting on a replacement ID. 

Bertrand and Landers exchanged looks.

"Let me guess, your green card was in there too," Landers said dryly, causing Stiles' brows to furrow in sudden understanding. 

Miguel shrugged without looking up, neither confirming nor denying.

Stiles was about to jump in and point out that they couldn't really demand ID if they weren't even charging him with anything, but the officers didn't press the issue.

"All right, son, just give me your name and address," Bertrand said simply.

The mechanic gave his name as Miguel Torres and the address he provided must have been the address of the station, because Bertrand asked if he didn't have any other address, but accepted it when he indicated that he did not.

The officers left, and as their car dwindled into the distance, Miguel turned back to the jeep. Stiles was blocking his way with a distinctly curious and speculative look on his face. "Okay, what was that all about?" he wanted to know.

Miguel, completely back to normal now, gave a one-shouldered shrug. "The idiot kids that trashed the station. Weren't you paying attention?" he asked sarcastically.

Stiles squinted at him. "No, not _that_ that, the _other_ that. The sudden accent and your whole chameleon act. You've intentionally got those guys thinking you're an illegal immigrant or something, but you're not, are you?"

"Oh no?  How can you be so sure?  You realize if you're wrong, you're kind of being an ass," Miguel pointed out as he pushed past Stiles to the jeep.

"Yeah, but I'm not wrong. If you really _were_ dodging immigration, why intentionally go act out a stereotype around the cops when you'd fly under the radar much easier just acting normal? That makes no sense. No, you're pretending you're somebody other than you are and oh my God are you hiding from something?" Stiles' voice had become distinctly excited. "You are, aren't you!"

Miguel shot him a sharp, exasperated glance. "Yeah, Stiles. I robbed a bank.  Can't you see how flush I am?  A bank robbing serial killer is fixing your car." 

"Really?" Stiles asked with unabashed interest.

Miguel huffed out a short, annoyed breath and looked at Stiles as if he really questioned his sanity sometimes. "Don't sound so excited about it.  No, not _really_!  Look, the only thing I'm hiding from is the IRS. I need every penny I can get and around here people are more likely to pay you under the table if they think you're undocumented. They are also more likely to leave you alone and look right past you.  It's a great way to be a non-entity," he remarked with a bit of asperity.  

Stiles eyed his companion suspiciously. "I guess that _could_ make sense," he said, sounding a bit deflated but still skeptical.  "But then is Miguel even your real name?" He squinted. His brain was making a sudden string of frenetic, chaotic connections as was sometimes its habit, and he chased the thoughts aloud, as he was too often _his_ habit. "Because suddenly I'm thinking about you cheering the Detroit Tigers the other night and particularly their first baseman Miguel Cabrera.  Can't blame you, a lot to admire there, I mean the guy's an awesome pure hitter, career batting average of .320; top of the crop.  He's a nine time All-Star and he played for the Marlins when they won the 2003 World Series, but the most interesting part is that his full name _happens_ to be José **_Miguel_** Cabrera **_Torres_**." 

It took him a moment to mentally pull all that up, but it helped that the man's high batting average had already put him on Stiles' radar of players who garnered his attention even though they were outside the sphere of his favorite teams. It was an admittedly thin strand to pull, but it made sense to him. He smiled, pleased with his own reasoning.

Miguel did not appreciate it quite as much.  He looked at Stiles with incredulous irritation.  "What are you, a walking encyclopedia of baseball?!  Just because probably nobody else in the world has aweird-ass name like _Stiles,_ doesn't mean other people don't share. Those are common names."

"Yes, they are common names, which is what makes them kind of perfect for an alias," Stiles pointed out.  He was pretty sure he remembered seeing a bunch of Marlin uniforms in Miguel's baseball card collection, and they'd looked old enough to have been from their World Series year.  He was right. He just _knew_ he was right.  He thought it was smart of his companion to not use the exact name the way the ball player did and he nodded approvingly, thinking it was a good, obscure alias and most people would never make the connection.

Miguel snatched up a wrench, going back to tightening the connections they'd been working on before. "Good grief, it's a _coincidence,_ Stiles. With an imagination like yours, you should write fiction. First I'm a serial killer, now I'm a fugitive," he grumbled in acidic tones. 

"You could be a fugitive serial killer.  They're not mutually exclusive," Stiles pointed out helpfully, but his grin said he wasn't serious - about the serial killer part, anyway.

"Do you want to play spy, or do you want to finish fixing your junk-mobile?" Miguel growled. His expression was dark and he fumbled a bit as he adjusted his grip, then twisted the tool almost viciously enough to strip the nut.

Stiles realized his companion wasn't just annoyed, he was rattled.  It confirmed rather than denied his suspicions, but he prudently decided that continuing to press wasn't going to lead anywhere good. "Well, as long as clever tax dodgers don't bury their victims by the highway, I guess I can overlook it..." he said lightly, choosing to pretend for the moment that he believed Miguel's story.

"Big of you," Miguel muttered. "Now get your butt over here and hold this still," he added, gesturing to a connector that was refusing to stay seated. "It keeps sliding."   

"Yes, sir!" Stiles saluted saucily as he moved over to take hold of the part that kept slipping free. "My butt is at your disposal."  Honest to God, he hadn't intended the double entendre when the words came out of his mouth, but he was happy to roll with it, shooting Miguel a mischievous grin and wiggling his ass more comically than seductively as he leaned over and reached into the engine.

"Oh God," Miguel muttered, rolling his eyes. He didn't look quite so dour as a minute ago though, so Stiles counted it as a win.

The part of the engine that Stiles was trying to hold in place was heavy and awkward to grip at this angle, resulting in it continuing to slip sideways even when he was holding it. He needed to be more directly in front of it, but Miguel needed to be there too.

Miguel frowned as the two ends he was trying to connect slid out of alignment yet again. "I _said_ hold it still," he said in frustration.

"Sorry, trying," Stiles apologized distractedly, frowning as he attempted to get a better grip. "Maybe if I can just... a little more this way..." He kept bumping into Miguel's arm and complicating the process further.  Finally, with a scowl, Miguel stepped back and pulled Stiles in front of him.

"Just, hold the damn thing still, all right?" he groused, pressing up behind Stiles and reaching around him so he could replace the missing screws and tighten down the connections.

Stiles swallowed, all the blood leaving his head and rushing south as Miguel leaned up full against his back, pressing into him for the few moments necessary to thread the fasteners through the proper holes to keep the whole thing in place. "O-Okay," he mumbled, suddenly breathless and very okay with this unexpected turn of events.

He felt Miguel's chest expand and contract against his back as the other man breathed, the body behind him moving against his as Miguel struggled to do his task from this awkward position. Miguel's hips were pressed against his backside and his breath was incredibly close to Stiles' neck.  Stiles wondered if it was physically possible for one's head to explode, because he kind of thought that might happen.  His heart was racing and he was glad he was pressed up close against the jeep because his jeans were getting tight.

Stiles honestly wasn't sure if Miguel was innocently oblivious to the reaction he was causing, or intentionally messing with him as a form of payback, but he couldn't say he cared. He wished the task would take forever, because he was seriously in no hurry to move.

Miguel's hands slipped and he pinched a finger painfully, jerking and swearing before he pressed forward even further, trying to hurry up and get the bolt secured.

Stiles bit his lip, ducking his head and struggling to hang onto the heavy, slippery hunk of metal in his hands around the faint tremble brought on by the adrenaline racing through him.

"Hold it still!" Miguel half barked, half growled. The vibration of the words transmitted straight through his body and Stiles all but shuddered. 

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled, fingers tensing around the greasy metal.  Much too soon, and yet possibly just in time to keep him from having a heart attack, Miguel finished his task and stepped back. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he moved to the side to survey his handiwork and finish the rest of the connections that could now be done from an easier angle. 

"You can let go now," he said, casting Stiles a wry look. Only then did Stiles realize he was still hunched over, holding onto the bit of engine that no longer needed securing. Stiles uncurled his fingers shakily and Miguel's expression turned a bit concerned.  "Hey, are you okay?"

Stiles nodded quickly, trying to smile reassuringly but ending up looking wrecked instead. His eyes were too bright and his face too flushed.  "Fine. I'm fine. I'm awesome. Um, I'll be right back," he excused himself, fleeing hastily around back of the station to cool down before he made an idiot out of himself. Well, _more_ of an idiot.

Surprise and something else flickered across Miguel's features when he saw Stiles' state in the few moments before he fled. He watched him disappear with slightly furrowed brows, lips twitching as if unsure whether he should smile or frown.

Stiles was bent over, running cold water from the hose over his head and shoulders when Miguel came to find him a few minutes later.

"Hey, sorry, I, um, was getting a little overheated," Stiles babbled sheepishly, looking up from under dripping hair, water trickling pleasantly down his neck and shoulders, his white t-shirt wet through from run-off.

"It's a hot day," Miguel agreed amicably, and for the life of him Stiles couldn't tell if the mechanic was humoring him or serious.  There was a bit of color in Miguel's cheeks that could have been from the sun. Or maybe something else. "You should stay hydrated," he added, holding out a cold coke towards Stiles.  

Stiles took it gratefully, trying to ignore the electric tingles he felt when their fingers brushed.  He was really being so stupid.  Then he noticed that Miguel was somewhat surreptitiously taking in the way his wet tee was clinging to him with a little more than casual interest. Maybe it wasn't that stupid after all.  _Holy, hell ... was Miguel actually checking him out?  Like... for real, and not just in his imagination?_

Stiles liberally dosed himself with the hose, rendering his t-shirt almost completely transparent. He attempted to play it cool, trying hard not to stare at Miguel as he turned off the hose and went to open his soda bottle. The metal twist cap stymied him, however. His flustered, wet hands found no grip on the painful little ridges around its rim. He nearly dropped the bottle, managing to catch it awkwardly at the last minute.

Miguel reached over and took it from him, covering the water slicked cap with the hem of his shirt and twisting the cap off for Stiles before offering it back.  "Um, here," he mumbled.

"Thanks." Stiles accepted it with a stupidly huge smile, most of his brain frozen in a jumbled, excited loop of nonsense.  _Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit...!_ Miguel was totally checking him out and he had no idea what to do with that information.  Sure, it didn't really _mean_ anything, but it was the first indication he'd had that Miguel might take even the littlest notice of him in a physical sense. Unless, of course, he was just misreading the other man and projecting his own feelings onto him. That was entirely possible, but Stiles' hormones refused to be discouraged by something so trivial as logic. 

Drinking his soda too fast, he nearly choked on the bubbles. He took his next sip a little slower, but couldn't stop himself from reflexively drinking every few seconds. It gave him something to do. If he didn't keep himself occupied with his Coke, he'd have to figure out something else to do, and for once his mind was completely devoid of words.

It was slightly maddening. He felt like he had an opening here, and he should say something, _do something_ , but he was suddenly worried that anything he said was going to be stupid, because it was _always_ stupid. It was a mark of just how attracted he was to Miguel that he was so afraid of blowing it he couldn't speak.  That had actually _never_ happened to him before, although perhaps it also had a little to do with Matt's scornful voice in his head, telling him there was nothing attractive about it when he acted like a babbling puppy in heat.  

Miguel didn't say anything, but he didn't leave either. He'd brought out two Cokes and they just stood there, drinking together until the bottles were empty and they had no more excuse to linger. 

"So, we should probably get back to the car," Miguel said slowly after a minute.

Stiles nodded a little too vigorously even though he couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed and upset with himself. "Um, yeah!  Car. That. We should do that." 

The rest of the day went pleasantly enough and come evening they had finally reassembled the entire engine. Sliding into the driver's seat to test it out while Miguel looked on, Stiles carefully tried the key in the ignition and was almost as surprised as he was delighted to hear Roscoe rumble to life, the engine turning over with a lot less protest than it had in quite a while.

"Yeah!  All right!  That right there is a beautiful sound," he crowed jubilantly, patting the steering wheel affectionately before leaning out the open door to high-five Miguel. They'd been working on it for so long; it was kind of amazing to see the engine come alive again after having been in a billion pieces like that. Having had a part to play in the process, however small, felt pretty good.

Suddenly, Stiles' flush of accomplishment faded as he realized that his car being fixed meant he had no more reason to stay here. He was going to have to leave. Deflated, he twisted the key, turning the car back off and staring at the steering wheel for a moment. Of course he knew he had to go _eventually_ , but he and Miguel were just finally starting to get along... and the truth was, he'd gotten surprisingly comfortable here with Miguel and his weirdness and secrets and grumpy awkward hotness. 

Stiles slid back out of the car, trying to hold onto his smile around the ache settling in his stomach. "So... awesome work, really. I'm lucky I found you and this was... this was fun. Thanks."  He dug out his wallet and thumbed through his remaining sheaf of $20s, counting out what he owed. Removing a chunk that accounted for the majority of his remaining cash; he folded the bills over and handed them to Miguel. "I think that's right, right?"

Miguel briefly double-checked the amount and nodded.  His eyebrows knit a little as he ran his thumb over the crisp, new bills before he tucked them into his back pocket. "You know, Stiles, maybe you're the bank robber," he said a bit sardonically. "You're out here in the middle of nowhere with a wad of fresh cash, in no particular hurry to get back to civilization... where'd you get the money?" The ribbing was good natured, but there was a small, pointed edge to the question.

Stiles laughed, but the shadow that flittered across his features made it ring just a little false. It really wasn't any of Miguel's business, but he supposed after all the serial killer ribbing he'd given the man over the past few days, he deserved that.  "Nah, nothing that interesting. I just sold some stuff," he said with a shrug, his vagueness indicating he did not wish to elaborate further. He rocked back and forth on his feet, hands sliding into his pocket as he glanced out at the road and the lowering sun. The deserted ribbon of asphalt snaking away into the hills seemed suddenly even lonelier than it had before.

"You said it's kind of dangerous driving out here in the dark," Stiles said slowly, his gaze returning to Miguel. "So, I guess I should wait and take off tomorrow, huh?"

"Is that a round-about way of saying you want to freeload on me another night?" Miguel asked. His tone was dry, but it didn't sound as if he objected. 

"Yes. Because your linoleum floor is to die for; no one makes Cold War era canned chili like you and I must get one more night basking in the general exquisiteness of it all," Stiles replied sarcastically.  

"Well, okay then," Miguel agreed, with an honest-to-God little _smile_ that made Stiles feel all quivery inside.

To Stiles' amusement, they did in fact have chili that evening and he couldn't resist teasingly asking which bomb shelter Miguel had dug it out of. Miguel laughed, and that was a sound Stiles thought he could get used to very easily. 

"More like the _Shop and Go_ ," Miguel corrected as he ate, "although there are actually some old bomb shelters out in the woods. I go past one every night when I make my rounds. Maybe next time, I should stop and see if there's anything in there that you might like for tomorrow's dinner," he joked, then stopped dead as he realized what he'd just said.

The understanding that Stiles wouldn't be there for tomorrow night's dinner seemed to settle heavily between them, accompanied by a sudden, awkward silence. Apparently, Stiles wasn't the only one to have gotten unconsciously too comfortable with their temporary arrangement.

Miguel looked away as if he'd made some great, cardinal mistake and Stiles played with the remainder of his food, appetite gone.  After another moment, Miguel abandoned his own half-finished meal and rose abruptly to his feet. "I'm going to go do my rounds. You should get some sleep. You've got a long drive tomorrow," he said, exiting the diner without waiting for a reply.

Stiles scrambled off his own stool, biting his lower lip as he watched Miguel disappear. He hesitated only a moment before hurriedly following him out.  Miguel was moving quickly. He'd already stopped into the station and was coming back out with his shotgun when Stiles caught up with him. 

"Hey, so... um, I'll go with you," Stiles half offered, half informed, nodding his chin out at the slowly darkening landscape.  He felt like Miguel was running away. If this was the last evening they were going to get to spend together, he didn't want it to end yet, and definitely not like this.

Miguel frowned, his expression betraying his surprise and uncertainty.  "That's not necessary. You should probably stay here."

Stiles was not about to be shaken off. Hands shoving into his pockets, he fell into step with Miguel. " _Sure_ it's necessary. I mean, come on, two eyes are better than one!  Wait... I mean, four eyes are better than two?" He squinted; face scrunching as he tried to work out why that still sounded wrong even though it wasn't. "Whatever, you get what I mean," he gave up with a shrug.

Miguel put up a token resistance, but his heart clearly wasn't in it and he gave in fairly easily when it became clear Stiles would not be dissuaded.

The sun was still riding the western horizon, so they didn't yet need the flashlight Miguel had shoved in his back pocket.  Long purple shadows traced down the hill behind the station as Stiles followed Miguel up the steep incline.  The pine trees grew thicker towards the crest and the older man slid between them with practiced familiarity, silent as a ghost amid the faintly rustling branches.

The dry earth gave way to hard rock and Stiles felt like they were climbing as much as walking.  After a few silent minutes of scrambling up and down a series of exposed, rocky ridges, they were back into the trees again.  The sun was setting. The humming of insects surrounded them.  Stiles had not ventured this far from the station since he'd arrived.  The further you got from the road, the easier it was to forget that civilization existed at all.  It was pretty, in a wild, harsh kind of way. 

Stiles slapped his arms as several of the ever-present mosquitoes found him, but it had been his idea to tag along, so he didn't complain. He had to wonder at the route they were taking, however.  There seemed to be nothing but wilderness back here. Did Miguel really expect any threats to come from this quarter?  Surely, any trouble was much more likely to come from the road?

"You really think there's much danger of any more idiots showing up?  Especially after those cops being out here this morning and the trouble those other kids are probably in now?" Stiles eventually ventured as they worked their way up yet another steep, twisting hillside, this one taller than the last. 

Miguel shrugged.  "You can never be too careful," he said simply. "And what if those kids who got in trouble decide to carry a grudge and come looking for payback? Never underestimate the evil of which people are capable."

Stiles hadn't thought of that and he nodded slowly.  "Huh, I guess that's a good, if rather creepy and disturbing point.  You have a very cheery outlook on life, you know?" he joked. He wasn't sure what Miguel's story was yet, but he was willing to bet he was hiding from _something_ and it _wasn't_ trouble-making teenagers.

Miguel just ignored him and scrambled up along the edge of another rocky outcropping.  Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder on its carry-strap, he used both hands to climb up the remainder of the short cliff face when walking was no longer possible.

Following suit as best he could, Stiles climbed up the rock wall behind him. He moved a little slower because of his unfamiliarity with the terrain, but navigated the climb nimbly enough.  It wasn't very far, no worse than the rock climbing wall back in his gym class days.  It was a little easier in some ways because it wasn't a completely vertical surface, although he also wasn't wearing a harness now, so there was that.

Miguel reached a hand down to help him up the last few feet when he reached the top and Stiles straightened to find himself looking out at an unexpectedly breathtaking view.  From this vantage point, he could see for miles and miles in all directions.  He turned in a slow circle to take it all in.  Behind them, the rolling hills undulated in alternating swaths of dark trees, sunburned earth and rocky crags. A darker, thicker shroud of green wound snake-like in the distance, probably heralding the existence of a river or some other waterway running through the generally arid landscape. In front of them in the other direction, the landscape was much more barren and open, the rolling hills broken by sharp rises and steep canyons.  Imposing mountains towering skyward dominated one side of the horizon, their looming shapes already starting to fade into the growing darkness of night. 

Stiles couldn't see the station or the section of road directly around it from here because of the angle of the hills, but he could see the two far ends of the road dwindling away into the distance in either direction. The last rays of the setting sun painted the long, winding stretch of cracked asphalt in shades of pink and orange, making it look like the placid ghost of some long dead river. Nothing moved out there. No dust rose to indicate anyone's approach. No man-made sound broke through the natural background whine and rustle of nature that passed for stillness.

Stiles realized this was a great spot to see if anyone was approaching. Day or night you'd see them long before they arrived.  It would actually be easier in the dark, he supposed, when headlights would be the only points of light moving out there in the darkness.  Perhaps that was why Miguel usually came here at night. He wondered how long he stayed when he didn't have company to hurry his solitary routines.  How long might Miguel sit up here in the dark and watch the road until he felt safe from whatever fears pursued him?

Stiles looked over at Miguel. The other man stood gazing out across the landscape with a distant expression, looking as if he saw everything and nothing at the same time. The sun was just slipping beneath the horizon now, painting the dark haired man's handsome form in sharply contrasting patterns of color and shadow.  Stiles suddenly wanted to reach out and touch his sun-burnished shoulder so badly it _ached_. Then the sun was gone and the dark patches merged, making shadows of them all.

"It's a great view from up here," Stiles murmured, although in fact the settling night had obscured all but their immediate surroundings and the spotty, faint glow of light pollution presumably being cast off by a couple of distant cities. Their dim illumination hung on the horizon, just at the edge of sight, like small buoys on the rim of a dark ocean.

Miguel didn't respond.

Stiles rubbed his arms lightly, more for something to do than because of the cooling air. "It's a good spot. You'll see anybody coming long before they get here," he voiced his earlier thoughts, feeling a need to fill the silence.  "But ..." A question came to him. "What if somebody came later?  I mean, like, after you did your rounds?" Miguel was certainly vigilant, but Stiles wasn't so sure what good this nightly routine really did. He got the feeling Miguel had been doing it since long before this most recent spot of trouble, and yet it apparently hadn't done anything to stop the kids who had vandalized the station. He was tactful enough not to point that out, however. 

Miguel shrugged in the darkness, a motion Stiles sensed more than saw.  "I used to come up here more often," he admitted quietly. "Now it's just... comforting, I guess. Very little ever changes out here."  He turned his head, gaze finding Stiles in the gloom. "Well, until recently," he added. 

Stiles couldn't tell if he was smiling. He really hoped he was.  Or at least not frowning.  "How long have you been here?" he asked quietly, the darkness giving him a senseless urge to whisper.

"Alone? I don't know ... four ... five months?" Miguel answered vaguely. He didn't sound as if he were being elusive, more as if the time simply meant nothing to him.  Stiles was struck by that for some reason, by the sense that it meant nothing to the other man because he seemed devoid of those plans and commitments and human ties that made others count their seconds and guard their hours.  It could be a peaceful way to live, he supposed, but Miguel didn't seem peaceful to him. He seemed ... adrift. Maybe that was part of what drew Stiles to him, because that was exactly what he felt like right now.  His reasons were different, and he wasn't so alone as his companion seemed to be, but there was still a kinship there that drew him just as surely as any physical attraction.

"That's a long time to be alone," Stiles observed, wondering again how Miguel could stand the isolation.

"Not really," Miguel murmured, something lost and empty filtering into his tone.  Then he turned and climbed back down the way he had come.  He was obviously intimately familiar with this terrain, managing the entire climb in the dark.  Stiles was much more hesitant.  He paused at the top of the short cliff uncertainly.  Coming up in the daylight had been one thing, going back down in the dark was another.

"Um... Miguel...?" he said slowly, reluctant to voice his problem, but his heart suddenly pounding as he struggled to make out where the edge of the drop-off lay in the deepening darkness.

Light sprung up from below as Miguel switched on the flashlight he carried and turned its powerful beam upon the rock face at Stiles' feet.  Following the light as it directed his path downward, Stiles turned and climbed back down.  Near the bottom he grabbed for a hand-hold that turned out to only be a shadow and slithered the last few feet with a soft yelp. 

It was only a small drop and he landed on his feet, but was too surprised to stay on them.  The light bobbled and suddenly Miguel was at his back, catching and steadying him before he could go sprawling and possibly end up rolling down the hill behind them.

Stiles leaned against him gratefully, turning and holding onto his arm and shoulder a little more than was probably strictly necessary as regained his footing on the rocky incline.

"Sorry," Miguel murmured, voice very close to Stiles' ear because of their position.  "I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have made you do that in the dark."

Stiles shrugged, missing the other's warmth as he pulled away, even though the night was only just beginning to cool.  "It's cool, I'm fine," he assured.  "That was kind of fun, actually."

Stiles saw Miguel's thick eyebrows go up in the harsh shadows cast by the flashlight.  "You have a weird idea of fun," he told him.

Stiles grinned. "So I've been told.  So where to, next?" Miguel was usually gone a fairly long while on his rounds, and unless he really was just sitting up here watching, Stiles suspected this wasn't his last stop. You couldn't see the area directly around the station from here, and he felt sure that Miguel must have some other place where he checked those more immediate surroundings as well. It would only make sense.

Miguel looked uncertain.  "We should probably just head back..."

Stiles put on a stubborn face, not nearly ready to call an end to things just yet.  "No way. I refuse to be the reason you disturb your routine, what if something terrible happens?!  Then it would be my fault, and I don't do guilt. Nope. Let's go." He forged off blindly into the darkness down the hill, leaving Miguel to hurry to catch up with him with the flashlight. 

"I'm actually really comfortable being in the woods at night," he assured as they clambered over a fallen tree and Miguel guided them towards a narrow canyon. Stiles was kind of turned around now. He didn't remember the canyon from earlier, though, so at least he knew they weren't retracing their steps. "My friend Scott and I used to go roaming around the forest preserve near where we lived all the time when we were growing up."

"Bet you were a handful," Miguel said wryly.

Stiles looked over at him with a grin and waggled his eyebrows. "What do you mean _were_?"

Miguel huffed softly in amusement. 

"That said..." Stiles added after a few minutes.  "You _do_ know where we're going, right? Because I gotta admit I'm completely lost right now." They'd been winding and twisting through the darkened wilderness for what felt like quite a distance. 

"I'm not," Miguel assured.  "See the outline of that hill over there?" He pointed at what might have been a vague shape in the distance.  "The station is back that way.  The overlook we're heading for is just ahead." 

_Just ahead,_ proved to be almost a half hour more of walking, or that's what it felt like anyway. Stiles had no actual way to be keeping track of the time.  When they finally got to the place Miguel sought, he promised he'd only be a minute and insisted Stiles not attempt to climb up with him this time.  This cliff looked both steeper and trickier, so Stiles only half-heartedly protested, before agreeing to wait at the base.  Miguel offered to leave him the flashlight, but Stiles insisted he was fine and Miguel should take it as he would need it a lot more.

Stiles watched Miguel climb until he was out of sight.  Then he was alone in the dark stillness of the rocks and the trees.  _This wasn't creepy at all. Nope._ Shivering _only_ because the air was now chilly, Stiles wandered around the base of the cliff, mapping his surroundings.  A fairly stiff wind was starting to kick up and soon he was rubbing his arms for warmth because he actually _was_ starting to get cold.  The moon was full tonight and his eyes had had plenty of time to adjust to the dark. Without the flashlight interfering, they adjusted even further.  He wasn't about to go wandering off anywhere, but he could see enough to avoid walking into trees as he absently traced the bottom of steep cliff face that probably was part of a canyon if he could have seen the whole area in the light.

Something out of place caught his attention and he carefully made his way towards it to check it out.  There was something unnaturally square and blocky looking just ahead, the man-made shape incongruous amid its natural surroundings.

"Stiles?" he heard Miguel call softly from somewhere behind him, indicating that the other man had returned and was looking for him. 

"Over here," Stiles called back and a few moments later Miguel approached, the beam of his flashlight illuminating the object Stiles had been trying to make out and showing it to be the old, square mouth of a partially hidden structure buried under the earth at the base of the cliff.

"Oh, hey, is this the old bomb shelter you were talking about?" he asked as he quickly scrambled closer, his interest and curiosity immediately captured. 

"Yes. What are you doing?  Come back up here," Miguel called, but Stiles ignored him, pushing through a tangle of undergrowth. He climbed over a thick, broken cement wall and dropped down into the inky black space beyond it, now standing in the mouth of the ancient shelter.

Swearing softly, Miguel followed him, and as the flashlight glow increased, Stiles was able to see that the metal door of the old shelter was half off its hinges and hanging slightly ajar. Nature or some other person had broken it, probably years ago given the accumulated rusting.

"It's open," Stiles reported, fearlessly moving forward and tugging to widen the gap until it was large enough for him to slip through.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Miguel warned.  "You don't know what's in there and it could come down at any minute."

"Nah, these things were built like tanks, man," Stiles assured as he wiggled through the gap he'd created and disappeared inside.  "They were supposed to withstand nuclear blasts, right?  Come on; bring the light, its dark as pitch in here."

Muttering something under his breath and clearly going against his better judgment, Miguel followed Stiles through, having to wrench the door a little further back in order to pass his slightly larger frame through the opening.

The flashlight illuminated the small room in sections as Miguel cast the beam about them.  The 12x12 room was completely square and actually pretty large for this type of shelter. There was a single bed against one wall and the ruin of what had probably once been bunk beds against another. The remaining walls were all devoted to shelves no doubt meant to hold the requisite two weeks' worth of supplies.  There wasn't much there any longer, the wooden shelves sagging and broken. Either the owner had cleaned this place out before abandoning it, or others had been through later on to scavenge. 

It had definitely been used more recently than it had been built, given the dozen or so beer bottles littering the floor and the graffiti on the wall.  However, the layer of dust accumulated on the bottles suggested that no one had been here in quite a while.  There were fluffy mice and rat nests made of leaves and chewed up textiles in the corner that looked pretty recently used, but thankfully no signs of any habitation by larger or more dangerous animals.

It smelled like animal droppings and stale air in here, but fortunately nothing seemed to have found it a good place to die in recent times. Stiles shoved the broken door open a little wider, letting the cool night breeze in to air the place out, which it did with surprising efficiency.  This place would probably be sweltering during the day, but in the chill of a spring night in the desert, the respite from the persistent wind was not unpleasant.

"Seems like a really out of the way place to build a bomb shelter.  Think it has any connection to the station?"  Stiles asked as he crouched down to examine a relatively undamaged section of shelving near the bed. The shelves still held several rows of canned food with rusted and peeling labels.  

Miguel bobbled his head ambivalently.  "Yes and no.  Old man Winnemucca said he grew up out here back in the day, but they eventually moved into town. You can still see the foundation of the old house on the other side of this ridge, a little ways down and closer to the road. This shelter probably belonged to them too," he guessed.  Flipping the flashlight lighted end down, he twisted and then slid the outer shell of the handle upward, turning the convertible flashlight into a small lantern that illuminated a general area better than the single beam could.  He set it down on the warped dresser at the end of the bed, casting the whole room in dim, but adequate lighting.

"Hey look, here's our chili," Stiles joked, lifting the faded end of one of the can labels and pointing to the old fashioned image of beans on it.

Miguel stooped closer to get a look, shoulder brushing Stiles' as he did so.  "Those look more like baked beans," he pointed out.

"Well _excuse_ me, didn't mean to offend your picky sensibilities," Stiles retorted. "Some steak and kidney pudding more to your taste?" he asked, turning another can and deciphering its blue and white label.  He made a face as he registered what he'd just said.  " _Kidney pudding_?  Gross!  No wonder they left this behind."

Miguel's arm slid casually against his as the other man reached over turn another rusting can towards them and reveal its label.   "I don't know, it might go good with our... _fancy all green asparagus_ ," he read.

"I bet the only thing fancy in _there_ is the mold that's been feasting on it for the last sixty years or so," Stiles opined.  "I mean, this stuff has to all be ruined, right?  Canned stuff is supposed to keep, like, forever, but these things can't really be good anymore, can they?" he wondered aloud.

"I don't know, but I know one thing, we are _not_ opening them up to find out," Miguel said firmly.

Stiles' eyes lit immediately and he started rummaging around them.  "Great idea. There's got to be a can opener here somewhere. We can find out."

"What? No! Are you even listening to me?  I said _not_ to open them!  If they _are_ bad they probably reek. Some of these have _meat_ in them," Miguel protested. "Besides, then what are we going to do with it?  We leave it here to draw even more vermin?"

Stiles ignored him, turning to yank open a few squeaky and mostly empty drawers. "But if we don't look, how will we ever know?  For science, Miguel, for science," he countered. He gave a triumphant little crow as he came up with a rusting old church key. It wasn't _exactly_ a can opener, but it would do.

"Stiles, no. I said, no!" Miguel said half in amusement, half in frustration.  He grabbed Stiles' wrist and they ended up wrestling childishly over the pointy bit of rusted metal.  Miguel clearly out-strengthened his opponent, but Stiles was quick and slippery and neither of them was being very serious about the struggle.  Miguel eventually knocked the church key out of Stiles' hand, sending it skittering somewhere into the shadows as he knelt over Stiles, straddling his thighs and pinning his back against the edge of the sagging old bed. 

Stiles was laughing too hard to put up much resistance at this point, his face glowing with the uncomplicated joy of being alive.  He allowed Miguel to pin his hands to the edge of the ratty mattress on either side of his head, coughing a bit at the dust their tussle had stirred up into the air. "Okay, okay, you win. _Ungh!_ Get off!  Let go!" he laughed, wiggling beneath the other man's hold.  The first time he humped his hips up against Miguel it was accidental; the next time not so much.

Miguel was staring down at him with a curiously intense expression on his face.  The fact that he was barely four inches away from Stiles' nose made the teen's gut give a pleasant little lurch and caused the mirth in his dancing eyes to shift several shades warmer, into something like desire.

"And what if I don't want to let go?" Miguel asked, ostensibly still taunting him, except for something in his eyes that gave the question a deeper undertone.   "What are you going to do?"

Breath shuddering in his chest, Stiles reacted before he could second guess himself, leaning his head forward and lightly dragging his lips along the side of Miguel's jaw.  "Anything you want me too," he murmured breathlessly, trying to sound sexy although he mostly ended up sounding hoarse.

Miguel's whole body froze above him, going ridged and for one long moment they hung there, suspended in time. Stiles really thought Miguel was about to push closer, but then the other man was rapidly backing off instead, releasing Stiles and almost scrambling away from him.

Stiles felt his heart sink to his toes because clearly, he _had_ been reading this all wrong and now he'd just freaked Miguel out. _Great._  "Miguel, I-"

"Are you okay?" Miguel asked, cutting him off and offering him a hand up.  "Sorry, I hope I didn't hurt you.  I ... I got carried away."  Miguel's face looked flushed in the dim yellow light. His tone was awkward, almost desperate, but he wasn't trying to get away from Stiles or acting like he had a communicable disease, so maybe this wasn't a complete disaster. Yet.

Stiles took the offered hand and leveraged himself up from the floor. "You didn't. I'm fine. I'm actually a lot more resilient than I look," he promised, struggling and failing to get a line on what was going on in the other man's head. Had Miguel's knee-jerk reaction been on account of his forward gesture, or had the other man completely misread his intentions? Had he somehow thought Stiles was saying he'd do anything to be let go because he was being _hurt_ or something?  That seemed like a stretch, and a fairly strange interpretation, but Miguel had proved himself a little dense in the signal department before and Stiles was admittedly terrible at flirting. Maybe he wasn't making himself clear?

Some rational part of his mind told him he was grasping at straws. That Miguel knew _exactly_ what he'd meant and was simply trying to pretend he didn't so they wouldn't have to address it, but Stiles ignored that aggravatingly pessimistic little voice because he was too emotionally engaged for rationality.  He _wanted_ there to still be a chance too much to back down now, even if he was probably going to make a smashing mess out of this like he seemed to do with everything.

"So... can you imagine actually having to live in this place for a couple weeks or however long they thought it would take for the radiation to die down?" he asked with attempted lightness in an effort to break the silence and repair the mood before Miguel bolted.  The other man's body language said that was a distinct possibly.  There was a weird mix of tension and indecision in his stance. Like he knew he should go, but wanted to stay. Stiles chose to take that last as encouragement.

"Especially since this place looks to have been built for three or four.  Not sure how they expected to survive _each other,_ much less a nuclear war," Miguel agreed, apparently so anxious to pretend everything was normal that he actually took Stiles' conversational bait, which, honestly, wasn't really at all normal for him.   

The small enclosure still smelled mousy and stale, but the arid conditions meant there was very little mold and the fresh breeze wafting in from the open doorway made it a little less claustrophobic than might have been imagined.  Stiles really couldn't imagine spending any lengthy amount of time in a place like this without going crazy, but Miguel's comment was too good an opening to not follow up on.

"I don't know," he murmured.  "I guess it would kind of depend on _who_ you were stuck here with. I could totally go for it, if it was with you."  His mouth felt suddenly dry and his voice wanted to crack. He figured nervousness was totally unsexy and he tried to compensate.  "I mean, like... I could think of – of lots of things we could do to fill the time..."   _Oh God, he was making this worse and worse, wasn't he?_ He wouldn't honestly be surprised if Miguel laughed in his face at this point. Wouldn't be the first time. 

Laughing did not look to be what was on the other man's mind, however. Miguel's expression was serious and curiously torn.  It _did_ surprise Stiles when Miguel caught hold of his arms, seeming balanced somewhere between pulling him close and pushing him away.

"Stop it. _Stop,_ " the older man whispered hoarsely.

"S-stop what?" Stiles asked breathlessly, captivated by the intense look in Miguel's eyes and his sudden nearness.  He wasn't _trying_ to play innocent, but his face kind of did it for him.

" _This_ ," Miguel practically groaned. " _This_ that you're doing right now; that you've been doing to me for _days_.  Stop making me... making me _want_ things."

Stiles felt his heart skip.  _Days?  Miguel had been aware of him for **days**? He never would have guessed that and holy crap, Miguel **wanted** things?  That was good, right?  It sounded good.  _"What kind of things...?" he murmured, and okay, he _was_ playing a little now.

To Stiles' disappointment, the other man released him and turned away.

"Things I can't have," Miguel whispered miserably. 

"Why not?" Stiles asked, honestly puzzled. "Look, I know I kind of suck at the flirting and social interaction stuff, and, um, maybe I'm doing this wrong? But... see, I like you?"  It was a relief just to get the words out, even if he accidentally made it sound like a question. Trying to be subtle was simply not his thing; it was so much easier to just _say_ what he was trying to get across. "Like... _a lot. A whole lot._ Super big like," he tried to elaborate, all eloquence apparently having fled the premises and reducing his vocabulary to roughly kindergarten.   

Miguel was staring at him now. Stiles smiled nervously, licking his lips as he pressed on. "So, yeah, I - I like you and I'd like to touch you, and like, um, maybe suck your dick and do sex things with you? You know, if that's cool?"  Stiles' hands flapped in nervous illustration until he jammed one under his armpit to get it out of the way, feeling completely jittery, scared and excited at the same time. 

Miguel was still staring at him, something like surprise and uncertainty on his flushed face.   

"Uh... you know, if you even like guys, which... you know, I guess I really don't know, and oh God I hope I'm not weirding you out right now, because I suck at reading situations sometimes and I really do like you even if you just wanna be friends, um, assuming you do and that's kind of what's been going on between us, I mean. I don't want you to like be uncomfortable or anything, so if we need to forget this ever happened we totally can..."

Miguel leaned in and cut off Stiles' increasingly panicked rambling with a soft, unexpected kiss.  It was only a chaste brush of their lips, but it left Stiles completely mute, his mouth falling open slightly in shock as Miguel pulled away, his dark brown eyes glazed as his gaze followed the older man.

"No," Miguel says quietly, voice still hoarse, but his expression surprisingly gentle and open. "No, I don't want to forget this happened." His hands slid hesitantly up along Stiles' sides, as if testing the motion out.  

Stiles grinned exuberantly, relaxing eagerly into Miguel's very tentative embrace and curling his arms around the other man's back. "No way, you like me?  Seriously?"

Miguel gave him another little brushing kiss by way of answer.  He seemed to be going in for something a little deeper when he suddenly sobered and drew his head back instead, the curtain falling closed behind his eyes once more. He dropped his arms away regretfully. "I do. I like you, Stiles, but I can't... I don't know where you expect this to go."

Stiles leaned in, gripping Miguel's shirt and recapturing him in open-mouthed kiss. He flicked his tongue between the other man's lips. Miguel shuddered against him and leaned into the kiss, chasing Stiles' tongue back into the heat of his mouth with his own in a way that made fire pulse in Stiles' groin and filled his chest with giddy, floating helium. "Preferably ... somewhere ... that involves more nakedness ..." Stiles panted into the warm, wet kisses.

He felt Miguel chuckle against him, but there was still something worried and uncertain in the sound, like it was part choke. Miguel did not try to pull away again, but he leaned his forehead against Stiles', holding the teen's shoulders gently.  "This isn't... it isn't _smart,"_ he whispered, sounding as if he was speaking to himself as much as his companion.

Stiles felt like Miguel almost said it wasn't _safe,_ but neither objection held much weight for him at the moment. Hey, he wasn’t stupid, he'd come prepared. He had the _safe_ side covered and as for _smart_?  Yeah, there was probably nothing smart about hooking up with this hot, mysterious man who was almost certainlyhiding from something and whose real name he likely didn't even know.  Did he care?  _Nooope._   This was probably going to be the most delicious mistake of his life _, so bring it on, baby._  

"Maybe not, but I'm okay with that, if you are. I know I'm leaving, and you're staying here and ... I'm ... I'm not asking you to _marry_ me, Miguel, or even _date_ me." He shook his head, lips quirking wryly. "It's like ... no strings attached, yeah?  If you want to do this, then let's do it, _please._ It's all totally cool, I swear," Stiles promised earnestly.  "But... I mean, only if you _want_ to," he added quickly, feeling desperate enough to beg but not wanting to pressure Miguel into anything he had reservations about.  

Miguel laughed silently again, a low, soundless rumble in his chest, but this time it was a happier sound. "Of course I _want_ to," he murmured, as if that had never been in question.  Gentle, callus-roughed fingers caressed up the side of Stiles' neck, cupping his jaw and tilting his head back a little. The angle gave Miguel better access to Stiles' flushed, parted lips and the slick heat of his mouth - access of which he took full advantage.

Stiles groaned into the kiss without meaning to, hands gripping at the back of Miguel's shoulders as he pushed his body flush up against him. There was no _of course_ about it for him. He wasn't used to being wanted, not like this, not by someone he wanted so much in return. It felt like this mythical thing that he hadn't realized could actually exist in real life, in _his_ life.

There was so much he wanted to try, he wasn't sure what to do first and he fumbled a bit, trying to do too much at once. He rocked his hips forward, grinding his jeans against Miguel's, the other man's belt buckle catching on his zipper.  He slid his hands down Miguel's sides and pushed them up under his shirt, feeling the warm, muscled skin beneath and feeling so giddy he was in danger of starting to shake. _Oh my god, ohmygod, OH MY god._

Stiles tugged the shirt up Miguel's midsection until the other man got the idea and grabbed the back of the tee, pulling it off over his head and setting it aside on the old dresser beside them. Stiles' hands were on him again almost before he'd finished. The teen kissed and licked his way across Miguel's pecs and shoulders in an exploratory manner while his fingertips caressed the other man's well defined abs. The eagerness with which Stiles' mouth worked across his companion's skin gave away just how long he'd been thinking about this and how much he'd been wanting to do it.

Stiles felt Miguel inhale sharply when he lightly sucked one of the man's nipples into his mouth.  He played his tongue lightly against the hardening numb and Miguel's fingers dug into his sides.  Then Miguel was tugging insistently on his own shirt and Stiles obligingly left his self appointed task long enough to quickly tear the tee off over his head. He paid no attention to where he dropped it, because Miguel's hands were sliding across his skin now, strong fingers tracing his breastbone and brushing across his own nipples while a hot mouth kissed the side of his neck.

Stiles pressed his eyes shut, breathing hard through his mouth.  It felt like fire was pounding in veins and pooling in his groin. He was so worked up and aroused that he was only a few steps shy of coming in his pants just from making out and humping. That would be too embarrassing for words, but the way Miguel's hips and his jeans clad erection kept rubbing up against his own was making the danger very real. Needing remove himself from direct friction, Stiles dropped to his knees and reached for Miguel's belt. He undid the silver buckle and popped the top button with eager, slightly trembling fingers, pausing to grin up at his companion before continuing.

Miguel gazed down at him with a kind of glazed rapture on his face that made Stiles fumble quickly to undo his fly the rest of the way. He hooked his hands in the waistband of Miguel's jeans and underwear, sliding his fingers under the elastic. He paused.

"This is really okay, right?  I mean, you're okay with it?" he whispered, a small, gun-shy part of him still a little afraid that he was somehow badgering the other man into this simply because he wanted it so much. It was hard to believe his feelings could be reciprocated and that Miguel wasn't either just humoring him or outright messing with him. _That_ was a blow he wasn't sure he could roll with very easily. Not this time. _Please don't just be letting me make a fool of myself so you can mock me._  

Stiles' head hesitantly lifted, his gaze seeking Miguel's again for reassurance.  He really didn't think Miguel was like that. He had been gruff and abrupt at times, but never intentionally cruel. The look on the older man's face was all the reassurance Stiles needed.  There was no uncomfortable acquiescence or malicious lie in his eyes.  There was just lust, excitement, amused confusion and an unexpectedly soft spark of affection that seemed to dive into Stiles and course through him, warming him from the inside out like gulping a hot beverage on a cold day. 

Miguel's fingers combed through his hair and curled behind his ear.  "Stiles, trust me, this is _so much more_ than _okay_ ," he murmured, breath coming raggedly as he traced the shell of his soon to be lover's ear. "But you don't have to do anything you don't - " the reassurance was cut off by Stiles eagerly pulling the pants down his hips and taking the man's freed erection in his hands.

"Want to?" Stiles finished for him with a cheeky smile, his fleeting fears put aside as his enthusiasm took over once more.  He leaned his head forward, brushing his cheek along one side of Miguel's hard length before following the same path with his mouth a moment later, swiping his tongue lightly across the soft, heated skin. Miguel _shuddered_ and Stiles felt a thrill of heat and power course through him like electricity. "Oh, trust me, dude, you have no idea how much I've been wanting to do _this._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*whistles innocently*_ Oh my, how did we get here? Mmm, finally getting to the good stuff. ;) Good thing this isn't a horror movie, though, or you know what would happen right about now, lol.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not fading to black. Hopefully no one minds... 0:) Please note that this chapter contains sexual content... okay, yeah, who am I kidding, it's pretty much smut from start to finish. If you don't want to read that, please skip this one. :)

[](http://inderlander.tumblr.com/post/99747034816)Pressing hot kisses against the toned stomach in front of him, Stiles fumbled blindly in the pocket of his jeans for a condom. His kneeling position didn't make it easy to get his hand in there, neither did the fact that he was severely distracted by all the naked flesh in front of him and couldn't be bothered to pull his attention away long enough to really focus on what his fingers were doing. 

Fingernails digging into slippery foil he finally yanked his hand free, coming up with one condom packet between his fingers and accidentally sending five others scattering across the floor beside him. _Oops._ Maybe he shouldn't have stuffed quite so many into his pocket earlier, but Miguel had almost caught him trying to slip them out of the glove compartment of his jeep before dinner and he'd just grabbed a handful and shoved. _Better over-prepared than under, right?_  

The brightly colored wrappers glinted in the dim light like Halloween candy strewn across the dusty floor and Stiles glanced up to see green eyes sparkling beneath raised dark brows. "Have a lot of plans, do you?"

Stiles had expected a crack, but he hadn't expected the husky curiosity and eager heat lacing his companion's voice. He inhaled raggedly. Catching the edge of the packet he was holding between his teeth, he tore it open quickly. 

"Yeah, _big_ plans," he replied with a wicked grin, glancing up at Miguel from under his lashes as he rolled the purportedly grape flavored condom onto him.  "For _all_ of them," he added teasingly. He didn't, actually, but it _sounded_ good and Miguel seemed to like that response, so hey, he was a creative guy; he was sure he could come up with something.

His tongue darted out unconsciously to lick his lips and then he was leaning forward, bracing his hands lightly against Miguel's thighs as he went down on him.  Stiles heard Miguel inhale sharply as he took the man's cock into his mouth and bobbed his head, teasing him with lips, tongue and suction.  The condom was coated in some kind of water based lube that made it extra slippery and it tasted about as _grape_ as most cough syrups that claimed the same, but Stiles could not have cared less just at the moment.  _This was happening, holy shit it was actually happening._ He would probably have been grinning stupidly if his mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied.

Miguel's hips pushed forward into the friction, clearly wanting more. Stiles gave way and moved with him, rocking back onto his heels to keep from being choked. Perhaps taking the motion for a retreat that it wasn't, Miguel stilled. Stiles leaned back in, long fingers splaying across the tender skin beneath the other man's navel and caressing outward as he drew in deep, preparatory breaths.  He felt Miguel's abdomen quiver under his fingertips, but the man held still as a stone under his ministrations.

Stiles glanced up with a touch of concern, hoping Miguel's lack of participation wasn't because he was dissatisfied with his partner's technique. He didn't want to screw this up. He didn't want to disappoint.  The last person he'd done this for had been less than complimentary about his efforts, but he had been a douche anyway and Stiles had practiced since then, okay?  Even an annoyingly overactive gag reflex could be overcome with enough persistence.  

_"Geez, you okay?  Stiles, man, you gotta learn to give decent head. Need to have **something**_ _to offer if you're gonna keep a boyfriend." The words were light; said with a smile and a wink like it was a joke, but it wasn't funny as Stiles hung his head and wiped puke off his mouth, throat raw and face burning. He laughed anyway._

Miguel's face was flushed, his gaze both glazed and intense when Stiles caught it with his own.  As if sensing his companion's need for reassurance, or perhaps catching a glimmer of it in his expression, Miguel's fingers slid into Stiles' hair, one thumb caressing his temple. He murmured a soft expletive, the breathless, heated way he said it clearly making it a compliment.  The older man wasn't much of a talker, but his non-verbal communications were pretty clear. His expressive eyes glittered and his sculpted lips hung partially open, a sight that went straight to Stiles' gut.  Licking his lips and panting softly like it was taking all his concentration not to fuck raggedly into the warm heat of Stiles' mouth, Miguel gave him a hazy, blissed-out little smile.

Stiles relaxed again, heat seeping through his body at the knowledge that he was putting that look on Miguel's face.  It was a heady kind of power to have and very arousing. Giving Miguel a saucy little wink, as if he'd just been checking in on him, Stiles focused back on the task at hand. Clearly, Miguel was keeping still out of some sense that that was the proper thing to do, rather than a lack of enjoyment. Of course, for all Stiles knew maybe it _was_ what you were supposed to do if you weren't a lying, creepy dick. Just because Matt had treated him like a vaguely disinteresting blow-up doll he had to fuck the hell out of just to get aroused didn't mean that was normal.

Stiles actually rather appreciated being allowed to come at this at his own pace ... but he also really wanted to make Miguel respond to him. He wanted to push him until his control fled and he came apart completely under his hands. Just the thought made his pulse pound and his body twitch within the confines of his jeans.

His fingers traced over the sharp crests of Miguel's hip bones and then down across his butt and legs, pushing the man's pants fully to his knees. Hands curling around the back of Miguel's thighs, Stiles held on for purchase as he pushed forward, taking him deep.  Stiles focused on relaxing and breathing through his nose as he sunk down further and further, carefully working until he'd taken everything and practically had his nose buried in the other man's pubic hair.  That didn't seem like it should be much of a turn on, except for the part where right now it totally was. He was honestly a little surprised by how much he was enjoying this.  How attracted you were to someone clearly made a difference.

Closing his eyes, Stiles swallowed around the thick cock in his throat.  Miguel shuddered, _hard._ One hand fisted almost desperately in Stiles' short, tousled hair while the other gripped on to his shoulder. Stiles smiled as much as his current position allowed. He swallowed again, bobbing his head back and forth and experimentally stroking his partner's balls.

Miguel gave a strangled little groan. His hands tightened, both of them now shifting to the back of Stiles' head. Losing the battle for control, his hips started moving again.  He pushed into Stiles' motions, following the pace he set at first, then driving more urgently as the pleasure mounted.  His hands cupped the back of Stiles' head, steadying him into the thrusts, but not holding so tight as to trap him if he needed to pull away. Stiles didn't. He met the pace willingly, humming and groaning around the hard thickness fucking into his mouth in a way that seemed to drive Miguel crazy.

"Oh God," the other man gasped softly. "Oh fuck." The words sounded like they were torn from him, unconscious and unstoppable.  Miguel's eyes were screwed shut, his long dark lashes brushing his cheeks.

Stiles had mostly been making sounds for Miguel's benefit, but now he groaned for real.  _Shit, that was hot._   He was kind of proud of himself, which was a good and somewhat rare feeling for him lately. His throat and jaw ached a little, but it was a small price to pay for the amazing reactions he was getting from his partner and the intense throb of arousal beating through his own body like a rudiment being played by an over-caffeinated drummer.  All the time he'd put in practicing this action with that silly pink dildo that he'd actually originally gotten to use as part of a prank was now paying off in spades.  It was quite different with a real person, but definitely a _good_ different.   

Miguel didn't last too much longer. He came with a gasp, breath punching out of him, fingertips digging into the back of Stiles' scalp hard enough to bruise. He instinctively jutted his stuttering hips forward, pushing deep and staying there.  As soon as Stiles realized what was happening, he obliged, sucking and swallowing around the pulsing length, milking the orgasm from his partner's tense, shuddering body. His only regret was that with Miguel hunched over him and his nose buried in the other man's crotch, he couldn't see his face. But Stiles had a good imagination and the spasms of pleasure rocking through his partner's body were certainly being transmitted to him very clearly. 

Miguel leaned forward, his trembling stomach brushing Stiles' forehead.  The motion pushed Stiles back onto his heels again, his back pressed up against the frame of the old bed behind him. With Miguel's fingers still tight to the back of his head and the man's thick cock pretty much completely blocking his throat as he curled over him, Stiles was almost completely hemmed in by the bigger man's body and the bed at his back. Strangely, however, it didn't make him feel overly claustrophobic, at least, not in a frightening way. However small whatever the logical basis might be, the truth was that on some instinctual level he felt perfectly safe with Miguel.

Adjusting the angle of his head until he could manage to get enough air not to pass out, Stiles stroked Miguel's inner thighs and fondled his balls gently to help ease him down after climax. Miguel let go of his head with one hand to clutch onto the dresser beside them for support, lungs heaving silently. For all his adjusting, Stiles wasn't really capable of getting quite enough air in this position and for some reason the light-headed buzz translated like alcohol, giving hazy, giddy wings to his already soaring arousal. After a minute, Stiles had to push lightly at Miguel's thighs to give him the idea he needed to back off now, because as nice as this was, Stiles really needed to breathe properly again, and _soon_.

Miguel obliged quickly. Almost too quickly at first, but he stopped when Stiles' body tensed at the too-abrupt withdrawal and his motions became more careful and smooth. He cradled Stiles' head gently between his hands, his spent, spit-slick cock sliding free from between the teen's lips with a soft pop and leaving a trail of saliva down his chin.

Still feeling dizzy, as much from arousal as from lack of oxygen, Stiles leaned his head back against the edge of the bed. He tilted his face up towards the other man, looking beautifully wrecked.  His hair was disheveled from Miguel's handling; his pupils blown from desire and the relatively low lighting conditions.  His mouth hung open slightly, glistening lips flushed and attractively swollen from use. His chest rose and fell in deep, panting breaths as he tried to regain his air. He looked drunk as he smiled hazily up at his companion.

The look on Miguel's face as he gazed down at him made Stiles swallow hard, his sore throat working to deal with the over-abundance of saliva that recent actions had produced.  He could see the looseness of post-orgasmic bliss in Miguel's body language, but climax had not dulled the heat behind those intense green eyes. _Fuck, the man was beautiful._   Stiles imagined he himself must look like an over-wrought fish out of water right now, but Miguel was looking at him like his messy, gasping state was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.  _Hot damn, if that didn't do things to his insides._

Groaning softly in the back of his throat because he was well beyond seriously worked up by now, Stiles reached down and chafed his palm between his legs, rubbing his straining erection through the material in an attempt to deal with the need throbbing through him. He whined softly, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

His eyes flew open again when a warm hand closed about his wrist, pulling it gently away from his crotch.  He found Miguel kneeling in front of him, face close to his own.  Strong fingers stroked the inside of his captive wrist tenderly. The motion was unintentionally suggestive. 

"Let me?" Miguel breathed the husky offer as a question. His free hand moved down, a few fingers slipping beneath the waistband of Stiles' jeans, just above the zipper.

Stiles inhaled, hips rocking up of their own volition at the slight contact, Miguel's cool fingers somehow managing to feel burning warm against the sensitive skin of his stomach. He wanted to be touched so badly it _ached_.Stiles nodded quickly, still gasping breaths between parted lips.  "Please," he murmured, voice a little hoarse from his recent ministrations.  "Yes, _please._ "

Stiles felt the slight tremor his words caused translate through Miguel's hands. Then Miguel's mouth was on his own again, open and seeking.  The kiss was intense, Miguel exploring his mouth hungrily as if extra turned on by where it had recently been. He kissed Stiles like nothing else in the world existed and Stiles clung to him because, for him, just then, nothing else did. He'd never felt like this before.

There was something about this man that drew Stiles in like matter flowing into a black hole.  Maybe it should have scared him, but it didn't.  Stiles fell into that abyss willingly, grabbing onto it with both hands. He sucked and teased Miguel's tongue encouragingly as it caressed his sore mouth, rolling his hips hungrily up in search of friction.  Miguel was passionate to the edge of being rough, but not in a bad way. His touch was somehow ravaging and yet gentle at the same time. Stiles currently had no brain power to spare for trying to properly quantify the sensations or the contradictory ways his brain interpreted them, so he just enjoyed it instead.

Miguel popped the button on Stiles' pants and tried to work the zipper. The angle they were at and the way Stiles' legs were bent were not optimal for the task. Rising, Miguel pulled Stiles to his feet with him.  Feeling shaky, Stiles steadied himself with one hand against the dresser as Miguel dragged down his zipper and pushed down his pants and underwear. 

Large, warm hands wrapped around his straining shaft and Stiles actually squeaked softly at the sensation.  He was so keyed up that the feeling of Miguel's fingers and palm gliding along the flushed, burning surface of his cock nearly undid him.  It felt _amazingly_ different from when he touched himself and not at all like the sort of perfunctory way Matt had handled him. Miguel's fingers glided reverently across his flesh as if exploring him was the thing he wanted most in the world; like Stiles' body was something entrancing and desirable.

Staggering for balance, Stiles gripped the nightstand tighter, knees threatening to buckle.  He bit his lip, knowing that yelping and nearly falling over probably weren't very sexy reactions, except somehow the absolutely burning expression on Miguel's face said that he felt differently.  Pressing a brief kiss against Stiles' lips, Miguel moved away long enough to strip the dirty, mouse and bug eaten patchwork quilt off the bed behind him. The thick, old fashioned comforter was completely ruined by time and exposure, but it had apparently been well made, because the ribbed, pale tan blanket below was in much better shape. It appeared to be relatively clean and intact, all things considered.

Stiles was currently in no shape to do much considering, unable to give much thought to the blanket's actual cleanliness or the state of the ancient mattress beneath. It wasn't grimy to the touch and it supported his weight when Miguel guided him to sit on the edge. That was as far as he cared about it right now. Hell, the place was probably less germy than a busy nightclub bathroom, and people hooked up in those all the time, right?

Miguel stumbled slightly, his movements hampered by the pants around his knees. To Stiles' delight, rather than wrestle them back up, the other man instead bent to quickly tug off his boots, shucking the pants entirely.  Stiles realized that somewhere along the way, Miguel had also shed the used condom, giving him an unobstructed view of the other man's still fairly firm and heavy hanging erection. The sight of a completely naked Miguel crouching down between his knees and looking like he wanted to devour him whole totally shorted out Stiles' mind and their surroundings faded into complete insignificance. They could have been sitting atop the Chrysler building in a rain storm and he wouldn't have cared.

Miguel took first one and then the other of Stiles' feet in his hands, tugging off his sneakers and then pulling the boy's pants the rest of the way off his legs until Stiles was as fully naked as he was. Stiles made helpful motions, but let Miguel do the bulk of undressing him. The other man seemed to like that and to be honest, he did too.

Shifting forward into his personal space, Miguel spread Stiles' legs further part with one hand on the inside of each of his knees.  Stiles watched, his breath coming so fast he might soon be in danger of hyperventilating. Miguel shifted into the gap he'd created, kneeling between Stiles' legs and running his hands slowly up and down the inside of his thighs as if enamored of the feeling of the sensitive skin there and the way Stiles was reacting to his touches.

Falling back to support himself on his hands, Stiles bit his lower lip between his teeth, his eyes reflecting the need burning through his body. Miguel's hands created the most amazing sensations against his skin. Stiles was a very tactile person. The calluses of hard work on Miguel's palms and fingers gave his touch a mix of contrasting soft and rough textures that drove Stiles crazy.

Stiles' elbows shook and he had to support himself on one hand, jamming the knuckles of his other into his mouth to stifle an outcry when Miguel rolled a condom onto him. It wasn't an entirely smooth procedure. Miguel didn't seem to have any practice putting one on someone else, but he managed it all right in the end.  Stiles bit his knuckle harder, trying to think of non-sexy things and counting it a minor miracle that he hadn't lost it just from having the condom applied.

The condoms had been part of a variety pack and the scent of artificial strawberry told Stiles which one Miguel had grabbed.  Miguel dipped his head and gave an experimental lick along Stiles' length, much as Stiles had done to him earlier. The older man paused for just a moment, his brows pinching slightly in a way that suggested he either didn't like the taste, or simply wasn't used to it. Stiles wondered suddenly if perhaps this wasn't something Miguel had done very often.

Whether or not that was the case, he seemed to have no lacking in his willingness to try. He gamely licked up the other side of Stiles' cock before sucking him full on into his mouth.

Stiles fell back on his elbows, a strangled sound punched out of him by the heat of Miguel's mouth and the intense surge of pleasure it caused. _"Holy shit,"_ he half gasped, half sobbed. It felt _so_ good.

He quickly decided that his supposition about Miguel's past experience giving oral was most likely on point.  The older man had certainly not done it very much, if he'd ever done it at all.  He wasn't guarding his teeth and he seemed kind of surprised when attempting to go down on Stiles as deeply as Stiles had done on him caused the teen's cock to press against the back of his throat in a way that made him choke. He didn't pull free, but did back off a little, a short bout of coughing sending tremors through his muscular shoulders.

From his half-reclined position, Stiles could just see the dark flush coloring Miguel's features as he hunched over him, body tense, clearly trying to figure out where he went wrong without looking like he didn't know what he was doing.

His partner's lack of experience did nothing to kill Stiles' mood. If anything, he found it surprisingly endearing. It was sweet, and hot that Miguel wanted to do this for him so much that he was venturing into territory he apparently hadn't really trod before.  Conscious of what it felt like to be the inexperienced one and to be mocked for it, Stiles supported himself on one arm again so he could reach down and thread his fingers through Miguel's thick, dark hair in shaky, soothing caresses.

"That feels so good," he murmured encouragingly, and that was nothing but the truth. He was so aroused that Miguel's skill level was completely unimportant right now. The warmth and pressure of his mouth was completely undoing him, as was the earnest intent to please visible in the man's every motion.

As if encouraged by, or wanting to live up to Stiles' praise, Miguel determinedly went down on him again, clearly forcing himself to keep going when he started to gag. As amazing as the greater pressure and depth felt, and as much as Stiles was not at all adverse to helping Miguel work on this if he wanted to practice, he really didn't want the other man to push himself so hard he didn't enjoy it. Besides, honestly, if Miguel kept that up, Stiles was going to pop right _now_ and he desperately wanted to draw this amazing experience out a little longer.

Stiles tugged at Miguel's hair, pulling him back a bit. "A-a little _too_ good," he gasped out with a wrecked, rueful grin. "I'm way too close. Maybe just a little lighter right now?  Help me make it last?  It's just... you... it feels so amazing," he murmured, hand tightening in Miguel's hair with a soft groan as the older man shifted, the friction on his throbbing cock almost unbearable. "I don't want it to end."

Miguel pulled off of him wetly, trailing saliva. His dark lashes were damp from his earlier attempts and his expression held an amazingly intoxicating mix of vulnerability and strength, of raw hunger and earnest desire.  "Anything you want," he promised, his warm breath shivering across Stiles' skin. Miguel looked suddenly so much younger. His expression as he gazed at Stiles was full of such unguarded openness, his normally wary mien absent as if it had been discarded with his clothing.  Maybe, in a way, it had. Somehow, Stiles knew in that moment that Miguel was baring himself in more ways than one and the intensity of that fairly took his breath away.

"Anything," Miguel whispered again against Stiles' stomach, his mouth sucking hot, tempting kisses against his lover's abdomen and then down to work his way around the base of Stiles' dick. Miguel's hands moved against his thighs again and cupped his balls.

Stiles whined appreciatively. The sight of the other man's dark head bent between his legs made his stomach do flip-flops. It didn't matter how slow Miguel took it, he wasn't going to last. This was just too beautifully, blissfully much for him. Arm giving out, he let himself flop back onto the bed, barely missing clipping his head against the wall.  His hands gripped the blanket on either side of him. He felt like he was going to fly away at any moment and it was _amazing._

Taking advantage of the slight change in position, Miguel's hand slid from Stiles' balls and glided experimentally lower, fingertips caressing back across his perineum and then back further still.

Stiles quivered, his whole body reacting with little quakes of pleasure and excitement when Miguel's fingers brushed across his hole. It was only a light brush at first, but Miguel returned to that area a little more boldly after seeing the favorable reaction the caress had garnered.

Stiles thighs jerked, his muscles all drawing tight as Miguel suddenly recaptured Stiles' cock in his mouth, sucking around his length while he rubbed a massaging knuckle against his entrance. Miguel wasn't pushing too hard, but the stimulation was simply far too nice and Stiles felt the steal bands of his climax snap taught the muscles in his stomach and thighs, pooling hot and unstoppable in his groin before cresting outward.  Head arching against the mattress, he gave a soft, audible exhale that was not quite a cry, but not quite silent either, pleasure surging through him in waves as his dick pulsed within the tight, warm confines of his lover's mouth.

Miguel stayed put between his legs, gently mouthing and caressing him as Stiles' trembling body relaxed and his breathing slowed. Stiles stared up at the dark ceiling, floating on a blissful cloud of contented perfection.  "Oh. My. God," he murmured, breathless and smiling as one lethargic hand pulled free from gravity to lightly caress Miguel's head and shoulders. "Wow.  Just... _wow_."

Miguel stripped off the used condom and crawled up over him. There wasn't enough room, so he shifted Stiles and rearranged him until he was lying on the bed the proper direction.  Then he joined him, laying partially beside, partially atop him so they were sharing body heat, naked skin pressed contentedly together. 

Feeling lethargic and content to stay like this pretty much forever, Stiles turned into Miguel and kissed him, arm winding about his back.  Miguel kissed back, slowly caressing Stiles' face, his neck, his sides, his butt, anything in easy reach. It was a slow, blissful make-out, the kind Stiles had never actually participated in before.  He and Miguel just lay there for a little while, enjoying the ability to touch and explore, to map one another's bodies without reservation simply because they _wanted_ to.

It was not possible for it to stay innocent for too long, however.  Stiles felt Miguel's stiffening erection beginning to dig into his hip at around the same time the older man's kisses and caresses started becoming a little more purposeful. His own body was also beginning to take interest in the proceedings again, his cock heavy and starting to swell where it pressed against Miguel's thigh. The full body contact was delicious and Stiles humped the man's muscular leg with a soft exhale of pleasure. He slid one knee between Miguel's, tangling their legs together. 

Miguel rolled more fully on top of him, kissing his neck and rolling their hips into alignment. Stiles gasped audibly at the sensation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...aaand, no, I'm not done yet. More to come, because apparently I write _short_ porn as well as I write _short_ stories - in other words, complete FAIL on the _short_ side. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look. Another full chapter of sex. How did that happen? :)

Stiles groaned softly in the back of this throat as Miguel's hot, hardening flesh slid against his own. The arousal brimming up through him felt hotter and more fluid this time in some indefinable way. No less intense and delicious than before, but less desperate and somehow more deep seated, like soap bubbling effortlessly out from the pores of a wet sponge as it was squeezed.

He gasped again, biting first his lip, and then Miguel's shoulder as Miguel's hips rocked into his, their cocks brushing and catching and sliding and pulling him into a delicious rhythm as he pushed back. His mind was slow to catch up with his body and suddenly he wondered whether they shouldn't be wearing condoms for this. He wasn't sure, it was hard to think straight with Miguel's weight a delicious pressure above him and the hard planes of the man's naked, muscular body molded up against his every surface. 

Their cocks were sticky between their stomachs with the aftermath of their previous orgasms and now starting to become slick either from perspiration and friction or possible the start of more pre-cum.  The slick, raw slide of skin on skin was amazing, but Stiles suddenly wasn't sure what the rule was here. Was it a problem if there was no penetration? Was it any different than making out?  _Shit_ , he wasn't sure. He'd never been in exactly this type of situation before.

He was just deciding that when in doubt, it was better to err on the side of caution and trying to figure out how to extricate himself without giving Miguel the wrong impression about his interest in the proceedings when Miguel took care of the issue himself.

Rising to his hands and knees and giving Stiles a kiss on the nose, Miguel scooted back and leaned, reaching over the edge of the old bed. He came up with one of the condom wrappers, either cherry or another strawberry, judging by the color of the packet. Miguel took a moment to read, or at least glance at something on the wrapper before he ripped it open and quickly rolled it on himself.  Leaning over Stiles again, he rubbed the slick condom against him and into his stomach before beginning to kiss his way slowly down the teen's chest. He knelt between Stiles' thighs and Stiles happily curled his legs around the back of his lover's hips, lost in sensation.

In a semi-euphoric haze, Stiles wondered if Miguel expected him to get his own condom, or if as long as one of them was wrapped, that was probably okay?  Then Miguel shifted, tilting Stiles' hips and massaging his asshole again and Stiles stopped thinking as his stomach flipped heatedly and a little shiver ran from his tailbone up his spine.

Miguel continued the massage, his knuckle working the ring until Stiles' body started to relax into it. The head of Miguel's knuckle pressed in shallowly, easing him open.  The digit was dry but Miguel didn't press so hard or deep that it was painful.

Stiles inhaled with a shudder. His mind hazed out completely as he suddenly realized where this was going, because as often as he'd _imagined_ what it would be like to have someone inside him, the possibility of it happening in reality was honestly somewhat brain-melting. 

Miguel rubbed his fingers in circles, pushing his knuckle in deeper. He wasn't being rough, but without any lube it was getting to the edge of uncomfortable. He stopped just shy of it actually starting to hurt, though. Moving to support his weight on his hands, he teased his lover with his body instead. The purposeful, promising brush of his cock sliding between Stiles' butt cheeks sent frissons of pleasure and excitement through the teen.

Stiles hadn't actually imagined they'd skip right up to penetrative sex tonight, although maybe he should have.  He was not at all adverse to this turn of events. The idea thrilled him, but he'd never done it before and couldn't help feeling  a certain amount of nerves at the prospect.

"Oh... _Oh..._ Okay, this is happening..." he murmured, hips shifting, cheeks spotty with an adorable flush that matched his bitten lips. His eyes were wide in the dim light. He was suddenly glad he remembered reading on the condom box that they were sugar-free and suitable for intercourse, even if he'd not imagined using them for such.

Miguel caressed his hot cheek gently, the unhurried naturalness of his movements suggesting he felt this was the normal progression of events from what they'd just been doing, and maybe it was.  It wasn't as if Stiles had a base of reference.  His last "boyfriend" and the only guy he'd ever been with outside a few drunken encounters that didn't really count, had turned out to just be using him to get to someone else and had therefore been distinctly disinterested in having sexy times. For a while Stiles had been convinced that was his fault; that Matt didn't want more because he wasn't attractive and was so bad at everything - notions the douche had, of course, actively encouraged. Stiles knew better now, but was still in the dark about what it was like to be with someone who was actually into you.  So, hell, what did he know, really?

Apparently a little more than Miguel, as it turned out. Stiles' nervous excitement was quickly joined by a feeling of surprise and mild alarm as Miguel's hardness started prodding his entrance in a fairly meaningful manner and Stiles realized he wasn't just teasing him with the contact.

"Um..." Stiles hesitated, then squirmed, yelping softly when Miguel's solution to the resistance he was encountering was to push a little harder. 

"Whoa!  Whoa, Nellie," he said, putting his hands up to call for a pause and scooting back a little to ease the pressure. "You can't just ... um ... my body is unfortunately not as - uh - as _helpful_ as a girl's in some ways, okay?  We need way more prep for this, and I know the condoms _say_ they're lubricated, but that is like, not nearly enough, by itself." _Especially not for my first go at it._ Stiles struggled to give some kind of tactful explanation, resisting his initial impulse to blurt _"oh my god, you don't just **stick it in** ".  _

_Gentle,_ he reminded himself. _Gentle. Maybe he doesn't know._ That seemed a little incredible to the point of being preposterous, but then again, maybe not if Miguel had never been with a man before, which Stiles was seriously beginning to suspect. Maybe Miguel had had a kind of sheltered existence and hadn't really investigated the subject or had much exposure to gay porn? Or perhaps only porn that jumped right into the deep end and didn't show the stuff that went first ... ? Who knew. The point was, if Miguel wasn't intentionally pushing the envelope with him and it was an honest blunder, Stiles wasn't going to be a dick about it.

If it _wasn't_ a mistake... Stiles didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to consider how completely vulnerable he was right now. Miguel could do anything to him out here and there was little he could do about it ... but he wasn't afraid. _No, he wasn't._ Ill advised or not, he trusted this man.

Proving that he deserved that trust, Miguel pulled back almost immediately. "Oh," his expression was startled and flustered. "O-oh, right," he said it like it was some detail he totally knew but had just temporarily forgotten. Yeah, Stiles was quite familiar with _that_ act. _Miguel totally **hadn't** known._  

Stiles bit his lower lip hard to keep from smiling too much. It was so very rare and unexpected for him to be the experienced one in this situation. Or... well, the _knowledgeable_ one, anyway. His expression quickly turned into a frown, however, when Miguel climbed off him with regretful embarrassment stiffening his movements.

Miguel fumbled about on the floor for his clothes, head ducked and refusing to meet Stiles' gaze. "Sorry," the older man mumbled. "I didn't mean... I'm sorry."

"No, no, no! Wait..." Stiles said, sitting up quickly.  "Or, uh, I guess I mean yes, yes, yes?" he amended.  "I mean, it's okay, I wasn't saying _stop_ , just _hold on a minute_ ," he tried to clarify, slipping off the bed and pulling Miguel's pants out of his hand. He let them fall back to the floor and pushed up against the other man, their bodies rubbing together as he gave him a soft kiss. "I... I want you," he murmured, his face flushing a little at the admission and the butterflies in his stomach making a marked reappearance.  He draped his arms around Miguel's waist.  "I want to ... to feel you."  Stiles bit his already over-bitten lip, wanting to sound seductive but just feeling awkward and horny and nervous instead. 

Miguel seemed totally okay with his brand of awkward, though, because his eyes almost visibly dilated and he rocked his still condom-clad erection a little firmer into Stiles' abdomen.  Stiles grinned as he leaned in and kissed Miguel again, dragging the man's lower lip lightly between his teeth.  Miguel wasn't exactly suave incarnate himself, but honestly ... that put Stiles at ease so much more than if his companion had been the confident, experienced, forceful lover he'd sort of expected.  Maybe their oddly fumbling attempts at this whole sex thing wasn't the kind of majestic erotica anyone would put in a movie or make a porno about, but it worked for him. It really, really did. He felt like he could relax with Miguel. Like he could explore and experiment with him without feeling as intimidated by his own inexperience or his partner's massive good looks as he otherwise would have been.

Miguel's hands settled on his waist. "Yeah?" he murmured against the corner of Stiles' lips.

"Yeah," Stiles confirmed, twisting his head to capture the other man's mouth again because he just would never get enough of that perfection.

Maybe Stiles was attracted to the wrong kind of people as a rule, but most of the guys he'd met with Miguel's level of hotness tended to be confident to the point of arrogance and interested only in what you had to offer them.  Stiles had come prepared to bring his _A game_ , such as it was, and hoped the lack of other options might give him a chance.  He hadn't been looking for anything meaningful out of this as long they both had fun, but he was finding that Miguel wasn't at all like he had expected. The other man was so much more intense and earnest and Stiles almost didn't know what to do with that.  Life seemed to have already left some parts of the young mechanic hardened and made him a little sharp around the edges to be sure, but in other ways he was surprisingly sweet and refreshingly clumsy, almost _innocent_. 

They stood there entwined for a moment, kissing and rocking softly together and Stiles was really glad, suddenly, that it never had worked out with Matt or the people he'd crushed on hopelessly in the past.  He was glad he was going to do this with Miguel, because sure he was nervous as hell, but ... it was strangely really comfortable too?  He had no idea how to explain that. There seemed to be so many contradictions in how he was feeling tonight, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Disentangling, Stiles crouched and dug something out of the pocket of his discarded pants. "Fortunately, I come prepared," he said with grin, triumphantly waggling an unlabeled silver pouch roughly the size and shape of a big-size takeout mayonnaise packet. "Behold, lube," he said with a twinkle in his eyes when Miguel squinted at the object in incomprehension.

Miguel's eyebrows hiked up and Stiles smirked at him.  "What?  So I like to keep some around. Don't judge. It feels really good when you're jerking off."  That was the truth, and the actual reason why it had been in his pocket in the first place. Unlike the condoms, he hadn't expected to need it tonight. If he had, he would have brought a whole lot more. It would do, though, or so he hoped.

Miguel _actually_ looked embarrassed when he said that and Stiles gesticulated incredulously.  " _DUDE_ , you want to stick your dick in me, you cannot seriously be embarrassed just talking about wanking."

Miguel managed to look even more embarrassed. Apparently _doing the do_ was okay, but talking about it not so much. "And the condoms you just _happened_ to have?" he growled, reverting to gruffness to cover his embarrassment, a tactic to which Stiles was now getting wise. "You use _those_ for wanking too?"

Stiles shrugged. "Not really, but you know, always be prepared right?"

"Oh, you're a boy scout, now?" Miguel teased a little less gruffly as he watched Stiles mince back to the bed and flop dramatically back down atop it, wiggling backward on his elbows until he was situated again.  

Stiles grinned at him, letting his legs fall suggestively open as he tore a corner off the lube packet with his teeth.  "Mm, sure, think they give merit badges for fucking in abandoned fallout shelters?  If not, maybe they should. Would love to see what picture they put on _that_..." Stiles daubed the thick, clear gel onto his middle finger and reached down between his legs, working it lightly against his hole. The lube was cool and the position awkward but the heat in Miguel's eyes felt sufficient to warm him up.

"Be honest," Miguel said, licking suddenly dry lips as he approached the bed, gaze riveted by the inviting display Stiles was putting on. "You came out here planning this." His voice was sounding husky and breathless again.

" _Weeell_ , more like _hoping?_ " Stiles admitted with a smile that was semi-sheepish, but mostly self-satisfied. He tried to push his finger inside. He rarely fingered himself and was trying to rush things a little too much. He grimaced slightly and backed off, getting more lube and trying again, slower.  

Miguel climbed onto the bed with him, studiously observing what Stiles was doing with his fingers.  He held his hand out wordlessly. Stiles hesitated a moment, then passed him the packet of lube.  Squeezing a good amount out onto two fingers, Miguel nudged Stiles' hand out of the way and rubbed slowly and sensually at the puckered ring of muscle, teasing it and making the area slick. 

"This was kind of impromptu, though." Stiles gestured vaguely at the room around them.  "I actually intended to wait until we got back to the station to try to seduce you," he said honestly.  His breath caught slightly, hips shifting restlessly as he slid a hand under each knee to keep his legs out of the way.  "You know, in case you were like, a secret homophobe or something and felt the need to send me packing again.  And I wasn't exactly expecting..." he gestured to where Miguel was now starting to work him open with one finger. "Well, let's just say this has gone _way_ better than I hoped."

Miguel's finger slid in to his knuckle as Stiles' body gave way for him.  Stiles made a little sound in his throat and let go of his knees in favor of gripping at the blankets.  It was _such_ a different kind of feeling to have someone else touching him there.

Miguel froze and withdrew his finger, applying more lube before pressing it back in. "Is this okay?" he asked quietly.  "It feels all right?" 

Stiles nodded, leaning up on his elbows a little. "Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, it's fine. Um... you don't have to do that, though, I mean, I can if you want," he offered. It was actually a lot more exciting for him if Miguel did it, but Miguel seemed pretty new to this stuff and he supposed it could be a kind of a gross concept for the uninitiated, maybe.

Miguel was starting to get a feel for when more lube was needed to ease the slow penetration and added another dollop before continuing. "I'd like to, unless you prefer I didn't," he said quietly, stroking the inside of Stiles' thigh with his left hand as his right probed deeper into the boy's body.

Stiles inhaled and shifted his feet about restlessly.  The stretch felt weird, neither good nor bad really, but watching Miguel do it ... seeing the studious attention on his face and watching those strong fingers dipping in and out of his body... _that_ was pretty hot.  "Um, no, go right ahead, that's cool. Totally cool," he assured.  "You can ... um ... you can add another finger whenever you're ready," he half invited, half coached.  "You're ... you're pretty big so, we should probably get up to like, um, three fingers before we try for the main event, 'kay?"  His cheeks flushed a little, because for some reason it kind of _was_ a little more embarrassing to talk about than to just do, but he wanted to make sure Miguel understood what needed to happen without making it _sound_ like that's what he was doing. Stiles may have no practical experience, but he was good with _research_.

"Okay," Miguel agreed, and Stiles could have laughed at his serious expression. Miguel looked like he was set to perform a complicated valve replacement or something rather than finger fuck his lover open enough for his cock. 

Then Miguel took him at his word and pushed a second finger in with the first and Stiles forgot about laughing. He bit his lips together tightly because that suddenly kind of hurt. His muscles clamped down in response and that didn't help at all. "Um, little more lube, please," he requested.

Miguel immediately obliged, working both fingers back in with extreme care.  Stiles' muscles relaxed again as the stretch slowly became easier and stopped aching.  Miguel was watching him carefully and Stiles nodded, giving him two thumbs up.  "Good. Yeah, good, keep doing that," he said approvingly, only a small quaver in his voice.

Miguel complied. He moved with the kind of methodical care and focused attention Stiles had seen him exhibit more than once over the past few days when working with delicate parts of an engine.  Having that intense focus fixed on him significantly increased the heated butterflies battering around in Stiles' stomach.

Miguel worked Stiles patiently with two fingers, stroking the boy's cock with his free hand for several minutes before he started trying to work in a third finger. This proved a difficult venture initially, and there were a few false starts before he was able to work them in without Stiles' knuckles getting too white where he gripped the blanket.

Miguel left the fingers in once he'd gotten that far, and spent several more long, incredible minutes stroking and caressing Stiles' hard, flushed erection and sucking kisses and mild hickeys into this stomach and inner thighs.  He learned fast and seemed to understand instinctually that he needed to keep his partner thoroughly aroused in order to make this as easy and as good as possible for him. Or possibly he just really _liked_ lavishing Stiles' body with his attentions.  Either way was golden as far as Stiles was concerned.

The stretch of Miguel's fingers inside him was significant and rode very close along the boundary of comfortable, but that didn't mean Stiles didn't like it. The sensation of something _moving_ inside him made the jittery hoard of winged things in his gut flutter like mad and the intensity of the sensation made his toes curl. Pile that atop Miguel's ceaseless attentions to his cock and other reachable erogenous zones and Stiles felt like he might come apart under the stream of continual sensation.

"More," he murmured breathlessly.  "Move... _move..._ " he begged when he couldn't take the inert sensation of Miguel's fingers any longer.  Miguel did, thrusting slowly and deliberately.  Stiles whined, the back of his head chafing in small movements against the lumpy old mattress. It was kind of too much, but it was also what he wanted and he panted softly, rolling his hips into the penetration.  Excitement, desire and nervous apprehension curled though him in equal measures as he tried to imagine the fingers replaced with a cock.  _Holy shit, was he really going to be able to do it?_

Miguel added more lube and slowly the back and forth glide got easier and easier.  "Stiles," he murmured, getting his partner's attention off the stars dancing behind his eyelids.  He held up the almost empty packet of lube.  "There isn't a lot here."  There was a thread of concern in Miguel's tone. Clearly, he was worried they wouldn't have enough.

Stiles was a little concerned about that too, but he shrugged carelessly, far too worked up to sweat the small stuff. Anyway, he was pretty stretched out now, so they should be good, right?  "It's okay," he said between breaths.  "Just use all of it and go slow, we'll be fine." 

Miguel did. Stiles could feel the other man's body fairly shaking from need, but he didn't slide up and slot his own long-neglected erection against his lover's body until Stiles told him he was ready. Miguel had augmented the condom's lubrication with all that remained of the lube and it slid slickly against the curve of Stiles' butt as he leaned in close.

Stiles shuddered and wrapped his arms around Miguel's shoulders, his thighs on either side of Miguel's hips and knees clinging somewhat shakily to his sides. "Let me feel you," he murmured breathlessly into his lover's shoulder, wanting it more than he could articulate.  "Let me feel you."

Miguel's exhaled in a warm rush against his neck, the muscular body over him tensing as he slid into position and thrust slowly upward.  He sank in only a few inches at first but he gave an amazed, strangled groan of sheer pleasure as if the sensation was nearly overwhelming. His dark head dropped to Stiles' chest, forehead resting against his lover's shoulder as he pushed in deeper with careful, needy little thrusts. _"Oh fuck, oh fuck,"_ he gasped, fingers digging into Stiles' sides as if he might come apart. 

 _"Fuck!"_ Stiles' sharp little moan mingled with his, although driven by a different sensation.  The teen's arms clamped hard around Miguel's neck and he pressed his cheek against the top of the man's head.  His thighs trembled, body tensing up no matter how hard he tried to relax. Miguel's dick was thicker and longer than his fingers and the penetration _burned._ Maybe it was always like this at first, or maybe it was a combination of their combined lack of experience, a shortage of lube and less than ideal condoms, Stiles had no idea, but he knew that it hurt, a _lot._

Miguel wasn't being at all rough with him, he was being so gentle and careful, he really was.  However much his trembling body suggested he wanted to bury himself in the body beneath him in a few hard thrusts, he didn't. He eased forward a bit at a time, slow and steady until he finally bottomed out. Hips pressed flush against Stiles, Miguel clung to him like he was drowning. His face pressed hard into the teen's clavicle as he fought to keep control, to keep still, to keep being careful, even as his pulse thundered like a locomotive beneath Stiles' palms and inside his aching ass.

"O-okay?" Miguel gasped the question softly, seeming to have to struggle with the words as if coherency took actual, physical effort.

Stiles wasn't. The dick up his ass felt like it was splitting him open. He was too full. It _hurt hurt hurt_ like a son of a bitch and he didn't know what he was doing wrong.  It wasn't Miguel's fault, there wasn't anything Stiles could think of that his lover could be doing differently to make it easier. Maybe he just had to adjust. Maybe it was like giving oral and it got easier with practice.

"Yeah," he warbled softly, clenching his eyes shut and clutching Miguel's head to his chest tightly.  "Okay." It wasn't entirely a lie. This didn't feel great, but he didn't want to stop. Clearly, there was supposed to be some point when this actually felt good and he figured he just had to hang in there and get over the hump. He'd pushed for this. He'd told Miguel he wanted it. He'd been fantasizing about it forever. He wasn't going to tap out now.  

Gasping softly, Miguel rocked his hips slowly back, pulling out and pushing back in with a soft, reverent curse of awe.

Stiles kept his eyes screwed shut and held on, trying not to cry. _It would get better soon. It would get better soon._ He knew if he had to, he _could_ tell Miguel to stop and he would. That knowledge comforted him. It made the pain only something annoyingly inconvenient and not anything scary.  He was also pretty sure Miguel would stop if he realized his partner was hurting ... which was exactly why he wasn't going to tell him. If there was one thing Stiles had plenty of, aside from hyperactivity and sarcasm, it was determination. He fucking _wanted_ this, and he was stubborn enough to stick it through.

Tears gathered in his eyes unbidden, wetting his lashes and he set his jaw harder.  _He wanted this._ It wasn't just about the sensation and the act anymore, nor even his intense interest in _finally_ getting laid. There was more to it now that he hardly knew how to explain, even to himself. He didn't just want to have sex; he wanted to have sex with _Miguel._ He knew it was totally sappy to the point of being gag-worthy, but the truth was he really wanted to give this to Miguel, to share it with him.  So he held on and soldiered through, burying his face against Miguel's neck and breathing raggedly as the other man thrust slowly into him. He held on until finally, gradually, he did begin to adjust, the pain began to ease and the glide started to get easier.  _Yes, oh thank fuck, yes..._

As the hurt smoothed out to a dull, full ache, Stiles' tense body loosed and he started rolling tentatively into his lover's motions. He still wouldn't really say it felt _good,_ but he could definitely deal with just not hurting. 

Miguel was practically shaking against him as their bodies rocked together. He gasped and murmured in wordless, almost helpless awe and that went a very long way to making this all worthwhile for Stiles, whether or not he ever got any substantial physical enjoyment from it.  Seeing and feeling Miguel come completely undone against him like this was ... it was nothing short of _amazing._  

Miguel buried himself with a little bit more force, crying out softly against Stiles' damp skin. Stiles winced, but at the same time felt shocks of pleasure knot his gut and tingle through his cock.  His erection had flagged some before, but the smooth slip and slide of Miguel's stomach chafing against him and the visceral sight and sound of his partner's pleasure were working on bringing it pleasantly back to life.

Stiles bit his lip.  He was starting to be able to enjoy himself again, but Miguel was beginning to speed up and he wasn't ready for that yet.

Miguel shifted up his body, increasing the angle of their hips as he leaned to catch Stiles' mouth in a hazy, urgent kiss. He saw Stiles' glistening eyes and tear-wet cheeks and stopped dead.  His movements stilled, his hands quickly rising to cup the teen's face gently between his palms as he slid out from between his legs.

"Hey... hey... Stiles?  Are you okay?" he asked in genuine concern. "What's wrong? Am I hurting you?"

Stiles could feel the other man's heart pounding against his chest, but Miguel's attention was fully trained on his partner's wellbeing as if nothing were more important to him. "O-oh my God, can you stop being fucking perfect for like five seconds?" Stiles rasped in a slightly watery tone, his smile almost painfully bright as he ran shaky fingers through Miguel's hair.  "S-seriously, Dude, you're gonna ruin me f-for real life," he complained fondly.

Miguel didn't seem to understand what he was saying, Stiles wasn't sure if he did himself, but when the other man started to draw back he shook his head and quickly locked his arms around his neck, pulling him back down. 

"I'm fine," he promised. "I'm fine. Don't stop. I want this. It kinda hurt at first but it feels good now, promise. Just... slow, okay? Please?  I haven't really done this before."  The admission escaped him before he realized what he'd said. He cringed, feeling his damp cheeks prickle with heat. _Oops._

He had so very much _never_ intended to let Miguel know he had been a freaking virgin _._ Well... in this particular way, at least.He expected some ribbing for that, or at least a weird look. He was 19 years old. All his friends were doing the do since high school and popular culture was very clear about what kind of loser still hadn't been properly laid yet by his age. He kind of thought all that societal pressure was actually sort of crappy, especially when you were already trying your best _thank you very much,_ but that didn't change the mocking attitude he was likely to get from other men if he was stupid enough to admit this fact.  Been there, got that t-shirt, thanks.

Miguel, however, did no such thing. He didn't even act surprised. Actually, he looked sort of ... relieved?  "Me either," he whispered back, shocking the hell out of Stiles until he supposed he probably meant with a guy, which, yeah, Stiles had kind of already figured that.  Honestly, though, he had a hard time imagining why someone as gorgeous as Miguel couldn't have had all the girlfriends and/or boyfriends he wanted growing up.

"So just... tell me things, okay?" Miguel murmured, caressing Stiles' blotchy, unevenly flushed cheekbones.  "Tell me what you like, what feels good, what doesn't... I want to make you feel good, Stiles. So good." He brushed his thumb across Stiles' lower lip. His voice was a husky rasp and Stiles thought he might just melt into the heat of those eyes.   

"Um... yeah, okay, cool," Stiles mumbled, tripping over his words and trying to remember how to speak. "Y-you too. I want that too. For you, I mean." _Yeah, eloquence had clearly left the building._

"Is it okay if I... ?" Miguel asked, glancing down their bodies questioningly. There was that cute flush on his cheeks again and Stiles grinned, draping his arms around his shoulders.

"Oh yeah, you _better_ ," he affirmed, wrapping his legs around Miguel. "Back in the saddle, cowboy."

Miguel winced, the flush deepening. "Oh my God, Stiles, can you not do that?"

"Ride 'em, buckaroo?" Stiles _innocently_ tried a different phrase as if _that_ was the problem.

"You just be careful what you wish for," Miguel teased, his cautious motions not matching his words as he rocked back into Stiles.

Stiles inhaled and shifted, but it was okay, he was still acclimated and Miguel was as good as his word, going slow, almost painfully slow.  He spent a good long time stroking and teasing Stiles, not even moving much inside him, just staying deep, rolling his hips and nudging against his core in shallow little movements until he more or less accidentally found his prostate.

Stiles' body tensed deliciously at the sudden sensation.  It happened again and his back arched a little, feeling like a little spark of pleasure was running directly from his ass to his dick. Now _this_ was more like it. "Oh!" he said softly. "Oh... okay, yeah, um, there. Definitely there. That was good."

Miguel seemed to have already guessed as much from Stiles' reaction and he sought to please, grinding and nudging against the sensitive area over and over, hands stroking the teen's body and his cock until Stiles was completely and deliciously mad from the pleasure.

"Oh my God, Miguel, you're killing me... _move, move, move,_ " he half begged, half ordered, rocking his hips up desperately, practically writhing on the mattress.

Miguel did, the pace starting slow, but gaining speed and force rapidly as it continued to meet with only the most enthusiastic and genuine of responses. 

Stiles gasped and keened softly in delight, body undulating wildly into the maze of new sensations. He couldn't get enough. He wanted more. _More_. He tugged at Miguel's hips, with his heels, urging him on, urging him to take him harder and deeper and faster and just ... _more_ everything. Each stroke sent electricity jolting up his spine. His erection, trapped between their bodies, was also getting a wonderful amount of friction with each wild, passionate roll of their bodies.

"Oh God, yes, more, more, _moremoremore_..."  Stiles wasn't even aware he was speaking the plea aloud, begging for it. He was so close now, riding the edge of ecstasy hard and furious, hanging there for what seemed a blissful and torturous eternity until everything snapped into place in a startling moment of intense clarity and elation, his body thrilling hard as he came all over Miguel's stomach, mouth open but soundless.

Miguel fucked into him a few more times, bruising and deliciously deep. Then his hips stuttered as he too found release. Stiles held onto him, gently, mindlessly stroking the other man's trembling head and shoulders as he collapsed bonelessly down on top of him.  Stiles was trembling too. Miguel's weight seemed to anchor him, to keep him together so he didn't spill out all over the place like water escaping from a melted cup.

He felt exhausted and wired at the same time, the aftershocks of pleasure still sparking in his stomach and thigh muscles and tingling all the way down to the balls of his feet. His arches actually _throbbed_ and that was really weird but also really strangely pleasant. He could honestly say he'd never felt this simultaneously wrung out and amazing all at the same time.

After a while, Miguel rolled off him and they rearranged themselves into something a little more comfortable as their bodies cooled and heartbeats gradually returned to normal. Neither seemed ready to move yet and while the air outside as getting nippy, their little concrete haven was doing a good job of trapping both their body heat and the heat from the day gone by inside, keeping things comfortable.  Miguel nuzzled his face lazily into the back of Stiles' neck as he spooned against his back, a contented lassitude hanging over the both of them.

"You okay?" Miguel asked softly against his nape.

Stiles smiled. " _Dude_ ," he groaned contentedly. " _So_ far past okay you have no idea.  That was _really_ good.  How about you? First time not suck too much?"

Stiles felt Miguel smile against his neck. "Not too much, no. It was... you were... amazing," he murmured softly with just a touch of that adorable embarrassment again. Stiles couldn't pretend he didn't thrill contentedly all over at the praise and melt a bit at the cuteness.  He had finally started to understand how very _shy_ Miguel actually was behind his stoic, grumpy front.

"Mm, well, that's probably only because you have no comparison," Stiles felt compelled to joke. "I'm sure you could do better."

Miguel wrapped an arm around his chest, holding him possessively close.  "Don't do that," he murmured, sounding almost puzzled. "Don't run yourself down, Stiles. You're attractive, funny, and okay, sometimes annoying as heck, but maybe I kind of like that too - _occasionally_ ," he added quickly.

Stiles blinked, honestly surprised and touched by the words. He grinned, contentedly wiggling further back into the shelter of Miguel's arms. "Mm, wow, awesome sex _and_ compliments. I could get used to this. Tell me more stuff you like about me."

"Mmm," Miguel hummed against him, seeming to know Stiles was only half teasing.  "Well, you pick things up quickly, you're really easy to talk to, and, um... I ... I really liked having sex with you," he murmured the last in a small, flustered rush.  Clearly, he wasn't very practiced at romantic confessions, but Stiles prized the genuine honesty of his words over all the flowery language in the world. He didn't know how to tell Miguel how much he appreciated it; how much he appreciated everything he'd had done for him tonight.  So instead, he turned over in the other man's arms and kissed him lightly.

"Thanks. I really like having sex with you too," he returned the compliment with a twinkling smile.  "Seriously, I can't understand how someone like you hasn't had _all_ the sex, man. I mean, if I had your body... hot damn, high school would have been an entirely different experience."

Miguel shrugged a bit self-consciously, tipping his head to rest against Stiles' shoulder. "I moved around a lot, growing up. Never really had time to connect with anybody and after a certain point it just seemed safer - I mean - _better_ , not to."  Miguel's fingers worried at the blanket, brow creasing slightly as if he'd said more than he intended. "And I'm not sure what you mean," he added, smoothly switching subjects. "I don't see a _thing_ wrong with your body."

Stiles laughed, feeling pleasantly flushed. "Yeah, well you didn't see me in high school," he joked.  

"Because that was clearly _decades_ ago," Miguel retorted dryly.

Stiles gave a soft laugh that made Miguel's arm around his waist shift pleasantly against his skin. "Eons and eons," he joked.

Miguel's hand started moving lazily, tracing a stripe up and down his spine. "Oh, God, please tell me you're not actually still _in_ high school, are you?" he asked with a small groan, a thread of real concern lacing his tone.

"Noope," Stiles drew the sound out, ending it with a little pop and looking amused. "Totally legal."  He played with some of the short dark curls laying against Miguel's neck.  "And totally wishing I could have sex with you, like, a dozen more times," he admitted easily, his lack of filter making its usual appearance.

Miguel shifted, looking up at him wryly. "Well, I wouldn't say no," he drawled with a little smirk. " _Give me a minute,_ maybe, but not _no_."

Stiles grinned, eyebrows raising. He hadn't actually meant right _now,_ but the little sparkle of heat in gut at Miguel's expression told him he might not be as totally exhausted as he'd thought. His fingers traced up and down Miguel's bicep. "Aren't you the spunky one?"  His face curled into a brilliant smile. "Ha! Oh, hey, that's like a pun. Get it? Spunky..."

Miguel groaned and pressed his eyes shut. "Oh, God, Stiles. Shut up."  He leaned in and kissed Stiles softly, which did, in fact, cut off whatever retort he might have come up with. They made out again for a while as if feeling the need to make up for lost time, or perhaps compensating for the repressed, unspoken knowledge that this might be the only time they would have the opportunity.

"Either you are the world's best hot water bottle, or the weather is being really obliging," Stiles sighed when they finally separated, his lips attractively swollen and flushed from so much kissing. "I'm not even cold. This all turned out kinda perfect." he murmured contentedly.

Somewhere outside an animal howled in the distance, faintly audible through the thick walls around them.  The sound was wild, primal and remote, bringing home the strange otherworldly isolation of their surroundings. Stiles shivered slightly, although he wasn't afraid.  

Miguel's arm tightened around his waist. "It's nothing, you hear that kind of thing a lot out here. Whatever's out there won't bother us," he assured. "And I have the shotgun if they do."

Stiles smiled at the protectiveness in Miguel's tone. "Save me from the ravening beasties, will you?" he teased sarcastically but fondly, earning him a half-hearted scowl. "It's so surreal out here," he remarked, fingers tracing the lines of Miguel's clavicle.  "So empty. I never realized I was a city boy until there was suddenly all this ... _nothing._ I mean, I grew up next to a nature preserve, but this is different. It kind of feels like I'm in some other, parallel world out here. Just you, me, half-century old kidney pudding and cattle bones. It's like being on an island, or another planet or something."

Miguel gave a small shrug, his hand working slow circles against the small of Stiles' back as if he just liked touching him. "It's something about the desert. I felt like that too when I first came here."

"Where were you before?" Stiles asked, his instinctive curiosity rearing its head as his mind slotted away the fact that Miguel was apparently not local. His fingers trailed through the short, dark curls of hair on Miguel's chest

Miguel shrugged again, leaning forward to suck lightly on the side of Stiles' neck. "Up north," he answered vaguely. "I've moved around a lot."

Stiles hummed contentedly in his throat, the sound turning into a small moan as Miguel started sucking a little harder, as if determined to leave his mark on Stiles' pale skin.  The warm, demanding suction sent tingles dancing through his stomach. "So you said. Why?" he asked curiously, even though he knew Miguel was being evasive again.

Miguel sucked harder. Stiles inhaled sharply, body shuddering as blunt teeth pressed down on his wet skin. It hurt in a strangely delicious way that was only enhanced by Miguel's hand sliding down between them and squeezing his sensitized cock.

 _"Nnnh..."_ Stiles breathed the sound, body twitching as he instinctively rolled himself against his lover in reaction to the stimulus. The thought flittered across his sex-sogged brain that Miguel may intentionally be distracting him, but honestly, he was pretty okay with that.  Miguel's mouth moved to his shoulder, biting him again as he slowly fisted the teen's cock and Stiles' tired muscles contracted spasmodically, the arousal welling through him feeling hot and shaky. His nerves felt raw, overworked. The sensation of pleasure on his already twice sated body was almost painful, but in the same strangely good way that Miguel's mouth and teeth bruising into his flesh felt good. His hand curled in the hair at the back of Miguel's head, fingers digging into his scalp.

"Maybe I just don't like to stay in one place too long," Miguel murmured against Stiles' reddening, spit slick skin after a few moments.  "What about you?  Where are you from? What do you do when you're not taking weird, out of season vacations to remote places?  What's your real life like?"

By now, Stiles had thoroughly forgotten the original question. He looked at Miguel with a dazed expression, flushed lips parted and eyes glazed.  "Huh?" he murmured hoarsely, hips thrusting into Miguel's grip in short, trembling little jerks, his muscles shaky and uncoordinated from over-use and all the post-sex chemicals floating about in his brain. "M-my what?"

"Your real life." Miguel squeezed him a little harder and Stiles almost whimpered. "The one you're going back to when you drive away from here.  What's it like?" There was something dark behind Miguel's eyes, but it seemed more sad than dangerous. Sad, wistful, lonely and jealous. There was an intensity of longing in his expression that cut through Stiles like a knife.

Stiles felt a traitorous stinging starting behind his eyes and he blinked it away quickly. He didn't understand Miguel's self imposed isolation, but the bleakness of the man's loneliness and yearning reverberated painfully in his chest, making him ache. At the same time, the questions hit far too close to home. What _was_ his "real life" anymore?  How could he answer Miguel when he had no answers himself? He'd been speaking the truth when he said he felt like he was in a different world out here, one where he didn't have to think too much about anything. He wasn't ready for reality to intrude back into it. Not yet. Not now when everything had been so perfect.

Stiles reached down between them and caught Miguel's warm, semi-firm erection in his hand, stroking him purposefully.  "Nothing interesting," he murmured a little hoarsely, leaning in to kiss Miguel's neck. He mimicked Miguel's actions from before, sucking and biting softly, tasting salty skin under his tongue. "My life's totally boring, dude. Or it _was..._ " he added, lifting his head back enough to give Miguel a wry little smile.  "Much more interesting now."

Miguel was hardening rapidly in Stiles' hand. Some of the sharpness had slipped away from the older man's expression, replaced by a glaze of pleasure. The loneliness was still there though, a dark void Stiles found himself aching to fill even though he knew how impossible and foolish it was to feel that way.  

After all, what was this, really?  A one night fling with someone whose real name he probably didn't even know.  That was the reality of it. The reality was that he would leave tomorrow. He would probably never see Miguel again and that thought should not hurt. It should _not._ He had had his fantasy fling with the hot mechanic and it had been awesome. He'd never intended this to be anything more, so he should be perfectly okay with that being the end of it. He _needed_ to be okay with it and maybe with a little time and a couple hundred miles he would be, but right now ... Right now, he didn't want to think about it. _Not at all._

Disentangling only just enough to roll to the edge of the narrow bed, Stiles reached down, fumbling over the side. He patted around blindly until he found what he sought on the floor. Ripping open the condom packet he retrieved, he rolled it onto Miguel with slightly trembling fingers.

Miguel caught his wrist, looking up at him, eyes dark with desire and questioning. "What are you...?"

"I told you we were going to use them all," Stiles murmured huskily, trying to keep his voice from cracking.  "You think I was joking?" His gaze was full of lust. He sought to show Miguel only his desire, and not the more complex, confused emotions that the other man didn't deserve to have to deal with. Not when Stiles had made it so abundantly clear up front he wasn't looking for anything other than pleasure from their encounter.

If this was all he could have, if tonight was his only chance, Stiles was damn well going to take everything he could get. He was just being stupid and letting all the feel-good sex chemicals get to his emotions and make a muck of things. He'd feel differently later. Later it would somehow all work out. Right now, he just wanted to fuck until he couldn't think about anything else.

Swinging his knee over, Stiles rolled atop Miguel, straddling his hips. Supporting himself with a hand braced on the mattress on either side of Miguel's shoulders, he rolled their hips together, sliding his body against Miguel's cock.

Miguel shuddered underneath him, wrapping a hand around the back of Stiles' neck and pulling him down like he was holding onto an anchor in a storm. "You're going to be the death of me," he murmured, voice hitching as Stiles rubbed against him insistently. 

"Miguel..." Stiles murmured, kissing his neck ardently. _"Miguel ... Miguel ..."_ he whispered the name over and over like a prayer, like a lifeline, like something he wanted to burn into his soul and keep there forever.

The man under him shuddered. Strong hands gripped his shoulders tightly. The older man twisted his chin and caught Stiles' mouth, kissing him hard and deep and almost desperately. When they broke apart Stiles was well and truly breathless. Miguel's gaze caught and held him, so intense he momentarily forgot to gasp for the air he needed. Miguel looked as if he was drowning, and Stiles felt like they were going together. There was something indefinable in the man's dark eyes. A longing and desperation that bordered on recklessness.

"Derek," he whispered hoarsely, his gaze burning into Stiles like he was giving him something precious, something frightening and dangerous and meaningful.  "Just for tonight ... please ... call me Derek."

Stiles face lit with a smile he felt down to the core of his being. He could sense the importance of the confidence being handed to him even if he didn't understand it.  _Derek._  He knew in that instant that he would never utter the name outside this room. Not ever in his entire lifetime, if necessary, because if Miguel... if _Derek_ had some reason to hide his identity, then Stiles would trust those reasons were important.  He would keep Derek's secrets and be worthy of the faith being placed in him. Even if he never saw him again... he had this to hold onto, at least. This unexpected gesture of openness and trust. This small bit of truth about this man with whom he'd shared so little and yet so much. It meant a lot to him.

 _"Derek..."_ he breathed, tasting the sound of it on his lips and finding it delicious. " _Derek..._ I like it. It fits you," he whispered. The name rolled around in Stiles' brain and he found that he wanted to use the hell out of it. He wanted to murmur it in desperation and scream it in ecstasy.  " _Derek,_ I want you," he murmured, grinding against Derek's now fully erect cock, sliding his hips until the tip was playing against his still slick and slightly sore entrance.  "Fuck me, Derek... fuck me until I'm screaming your name." _Fuck me until I forget that I'm leaving tomorrow. Fuck me until you ask me **not** to leave tomorrow... even if both of us know that could probably never work out in the long term.  _

Stiles had never said anything so daring or so dirty before. He felt heat beginning to rise in his cheeks, but Derek's visceral reaction halted him from feeling truly awkward. Derek's chest hitched and shuddered beneath him, body twitching and trembling as if Stiles had delivered an actual, physical shock to his system that had taken his breath away. 

The intense green eyes reflected like heated pools of desire and awe in the dim light. Strong, callused hands clamped down on Stiles' hips. Then they were both kissing and grinding in an urgent, needy haze of lips, tongues and slick, hard flesh. Derek murmuring and moaning beneath Stiles, breathless gasps that sounded like _"Yeah... yeah..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I can finally start calling him Derek, FINALLY. :P So, quick poll - there's two ways I can go with this. I can write some more smut, because I do actually have an idea for how the rest of their sexy times would play out, or I can skip forward to when they're done and get back to the plot quicker. Hmm... what do you all think? What do you want to read? Which way should I go?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your feedback on which way to go with this chapter, I appreciate it! Between here, FFN and the PMs I've gotten, opinion seems to be pretty evenly divided between wanting to see more sex and wanting to go on to the plot. Sooooo, in an effort to please everyone (and myself, since this is really just the way it ended up working out best) I give you a chapter that has a bit of both! :) 
> 
> We get a bit more sexy times in the beginning, and then a nice little dose of pretty major plot thickening. 0:) I hope you all like it!

Stiles caught his lip between his teeth as he pushed himself back and down against Derek's cock as he straddled him, feeling the hard length slip inside him again. He was ready for pain, but it wasn't there this time, not like before, anyway. He was still stretched and slick from the last time and the lube on the new condom helped a bit as well. 

Stiles _was_ still pretty tender from their previous round, but he pushed himself down hard into it, inhaling shakily at the way the stretching sensation seemed to scratch an itch deep inside even as it prickled and throbbed through him. He was over sensitized, but _God that was good._ He shifted back on his knees, taking Derek's cock to the base in one deep, hard motion, pressing their hips together and feeling, if not actually _seeing_ stars behind his eyes when the hard length inside him hit his prostate.

Derek's knees had come up, his legs spread, and Stiles gripped onto them like handholds to steady himself as he rocked his body, lifting himself up only to impale himself back down again. He wasn't used to the position, it was a little more awkward than he might have expected and his body weight drove him down on Derek's cock a little harder and faster than was strictly comfortable, but the sensation was still amazing.

Derek looked like he was coming apart. His eyes were wide and dark, gaze completely transfixed as he watched Stiles fucking himself onto his dick, the boy's spread thighs trembling as he struggled to keep the pace he himself was setting.  Derek's toned, muscular stomach heaved with both ragged breaths and convulsions of pleasure and he gripped onto the bedspread on either side of him, fingers digging into the mattress.

Stiles groaned, head falling back, body shaking as he spread his legs wider and tried to move faster still, his body aching and yet trembling with a bone-deep need for _more._ The angle was difficult to maintain, but it felt great and he had himself positioned _just right_.

 _"Oh fuck, Derek..."_ he moaned, transfixed by the way Miguel ... no ... _Derek_ was looking at him. The older man's gaze shifted hungrily between Stiles' flushed, sweaty face and his body. Derek watched their bodies merging, watched himself sliding in and out of Stiles' spread ass with an intensity of interest that made Stiles' already burning face heat even further. His stomach trembled and he groaned, tilting his hips to give his lover an even better view.

Derek growled softly in his throat, a mix of helplessness and ferocity, like Stiles was utterly driving him wild.

Stiles' legs trembled harder, his thighs burning and cramping from the unaccustomed workout and his movements starting to become more jerky and faltering as it became hard to maintain.

Either observing his difficulty or simply unable to restrain himself, Derek's hands found his lover's hips again and he started helping, lifting Stiles and pulling him back down, hips rolling as he fucked up to meet each motion, striking deep and making Stiles groan and fall forward, almost whimpering as he supported himself on Derek's chest.

Derek rolled them over, pulling Stiles under him. It was a relief on Stiles' burning, weary muscles but the movement also made Derek slide out of him and he whined at the loss. His butt was throbbing and being filled was the only thing that kept him from focusing on the less pleasant side of that sensation. He was quickly getting addicted to the sensation of Derek's body. It was a raw craving beyond the reach of reason or sense.

Stiles flailed a little, pulling at Derek, trying to push them back together almost mindlessly.  Derek caught his uselessly struggling wrists and pinned them down, leaning in to give him a deep, breath-stealing kiss before forcibly rolling him over onto his stomach. Stiles writhed, whining, his aching cock digging into the blanket. Derek's body pinned him in place. He couldn't get any friction going and his ass was still annoyingly empty. He'd come twice tonight already and although he was _more_ thanready for another go, it was going to take a fair amount of stimulation to get him there. He was worked up, wanting and exhausted all at the same time and he could hardly think straight.

"Stop teasing!" he complained a little sharply when Derek bit lightly at the back of his neck, the man's thick arousal pressed against the small of his back as he held him down. "Enough with the touchy-touchy. Fucking fuck me already," he groused.

Derek laughed breathlessly against the back of his neck. "Damn, you're impatient," he chuckled.

"Yes. Yes I am. Very," Stiles responded with a mixture of annoyance and heat. "Very impatient for you to get your freaking dick inside me and fuck me senseless. Is that a problem?" he snarked.

Derek groaned, biting down harder on his neck and twitching against his back, causing Stiles to smile against the blanket. _Score one for him._

"No. No problem at all," Derek acquiesced. "As you wish." The smile was obvious in his voice as his weight lifted off of Stiles. Sliding an arm under the teen's hips he lifted them.  "Come on, Stiles, push your ass up for me if you want to get fucked," he coaxed in a dark, playful tone when Stiles flopped about as if not understanding his intention.

Stiles' body shuddered and he quickly scrambled to comply, allowing Derek to guide him up to his hands and knees. _Oh. OH. Yes. Yes yes **yes**. _  Stiles only realized he'd said the thought aloud when he heard Derek chuckle behind him. He tried to glare half-heartedly at the other man over his shoulder, but then Derek was gripping his hips and pushing into him in one hard, perfect movement and Stiles forgot about whatever he'd been going to say.  His fingers curled into the rumpled blanket beneath him and he braced his knees wider apart, pushing back into Derek's thrust with an almost relieved groan.

Derek's hips met his ass and Stiles felt shaky frissions of heat and sensation zinging down his thighs and across his abdomen. Derek could get a _lot_ deeper in this position and he found himself gasping for breath, hips grinding back against Derek of their own accord as if wanting everything he had to offer.

Derek grabbed his butt cheeks, spreading them almost painfully wide and jerking his hips a little further forward, as if in accord with Stiles' unspoken wish.

Stiles really did see stars this time, a small groan punching out of him. "F-fuck..." he gasped.

Derek pulled almost completely free only to thrust back in with breath-stealing force. Stiles cried out, pushed forward on his hands and nearly losing his grip on the sheets. Sparks and fireworks exploded inside him, the force of the pleasure setting all his limbs to trembling. Derek did it again, and again and Stiles pushed back into him as much as he was able, their flesh practically smacking together and making them both cry out.

"Oh fuck... fuck... _Derek!_ " Stiles almost sobbed his name, arms shaking, body uncoordinated as he tried to push into the hard thrusts, tried to take _more._

Cursing softly, Derek's hands clamped harder onto his hips, half assisting, half arresting Stiles' uncoordinated attempts and using the leverage to pull Stiles back powerfully into his thrusts.  "Stiles... _Stiles!"_ Derek's voice was utterly hoarse and breathless, sounding even more wrecked then Stiles felt.  His hips pounded urgently, fucking into his lover at a punishing, almost brutal pace, his hands holding Stiles still for it and pulling him back into every motion.

It was a completely relentless, unbelievably raw and mind-blowingly passionate sensation. It was entirely too much for Stiles' already sore and overworked body, and yet entirely what he wanted.  It hurt _so good,_ although _hurt_ wasn't even the right word because it wasn't actually pain it was just sensation. Pure, bright, amazing, unbelievable overwhelming sensation.

Derek's cock was hard and insistent, pounding pleasure into him with every heartbeat, sending fire dancing along his nerves to pool unremittingly in his gut, like a devouring fire that needed more and more fuel the hotter it burned.  Stiles' arms gave out and he fell to his elbows. Burying his face against the back of his hands he screamed softly into the blankets in pleasure, his whole body shaking with over-stimulation as Derek's motions jolted him back and forth on the bed, his aching, burning cock bouncing and slapping wetly against his stomach.  He felt like he was going deliciously mad, like time and space and the universe had ceased to exist. _Holy crap. HOLY crap._

Previous orgasms having left them both much further from the edge this time allowed the incredible pace to be maintained far longer than would otherwise have been possible. It still couldn't really have lasted _that_ long, but it still seemed to go on for a blissful, torturous eternity; Derek fucking him open until Stiles was completely wrecked and shaking in every limb, need and desire and sensation having swallowed him whole. He felt completely undone and exposed and yet also contradictorily safe and complete, like it was _okay_ to come apart under Derek's hands because he would keep him together and not despise what he saw.

Stiles' raw ass was positively on fire, the friction and heat feeding straight into his desperately throbbing cock, the steady, repeated slap of Derek's hips practically spanking him and the constant jabbing against his prostate making him all but incoherent. It was so good, and too much, and exactly perfect and almost unbearable and he thought he might die.

Derek was gasping, almost sobbing against his shoulder, kissing and biting him mindlessly. Clearly, they were falling apart together and that just made it all the better. Derek's hands trembled on his hips, lips shaky against the sweat slick skin of his back as he pressed kisses, curses and desperate, formless words of awe and adoration into Stiles' flesh.  "Oh God... _oh God_ , Stiles..." Derek whispered his name over and over, telling him how amazing he was, how good he felt, how much Derek liked him and wanted him, telling him over and over, like he actually had no control over his voice anymore. 

Stiles felt like he was soaring somewhere on another plane of existence, wrapped up in Derek's body and his voice and the sensations unfurling in his chest and groin that were connected and yet unconnected in ways he couldn't begin to explain. He was whining, writhing, keening.  He couldn't stop the soft little cries pouring out of his mouth. Perspiration dripped into his eyes.

He felt bruised and oversensitive beyond belief, but that just added to the amazing intensity of the sensation. He rode the raw edge of climax for what felt like a long time, trapped in a deliciously unbearable limbo between the overabundance of stimulation from his ass and the lack of any stimulation to his cock. Derek was holding his hips up too high for his straining erection to touch the mattress and he was too shaky to let go of the bed, he needed both of his hands for purchase. So he hung there, suspended, feeling like he was living that amazingly agonizing moment before climax for an eternity.

He did scream Derek's name. Over and over, increasing in volume until Derek's large hand came up and clasped over his mouth. Derek's hips stuttered and jittered unevenly, his breath coming strange and uneven against Stiles' back as he reached the end of his endurance. His fingers pressed against Stiles' lips, gently muffling his screaming and pulling his head back. Stiles didn't think there was much point, seeing as there was no one out here but the buzzards and coyotes to hear them, but the sensation of Derek's hand over his mouth sent an unexpected jolt to his already over-heated groin and suddenly the pleasure pounding through him surged past the breaking point. His muscles jerked taut, hard spasms twitching and jolting through him in prolonged, unbelievable waves as he came so hard he nearly whited out.

His body sagged limply against the bed, completely and utterly exhausted and content. Leftover bliss shuddered randomly through him like haphazard little short-circuits as Derek collapsed beside him and pulled him into his arms. They were both so hot from their strenuous activities that Stiles found it almost uncomfortably warm to be this close to Derek's heat, but his lover seemed to need the physical contact and the truth was Stiles did, too. He felt raw, vulnerable and exposed. It wasn't a _bad_ sensation in this context, but it was a deeply intimate one.

Stiles' eyelids were heavy and his body far more sore than he wanted to take stock of at the moment. He curled contentedly against the strong, softly heaving body beside him and let his forehead rest against Derek's arm. He smiled at the other man even as his eyes drifted shut. He was very thirsty, but he knew he'd have to wait until they got back to the station, so he tried not to focus on that. He found his eyelids too heavy to lift again and there was a blissful weariness pressing down upon him with gentle, insistent force.   

_He just needed to close his eyes for a minute. Just needed to catch his breath and let himself cool off. Then ... then he'd..._

Derek stroked his fingers lightly across Stiles' naked hip and the curve of his waist, knowing from the slackness of the younger man's body and the evening out of his breathing that his lover had fallen asleep. He was exhausted too, but he blinked away the scratchy leadenness so he could watch Stiles sleep a little longer. There was something soft and attractive about it. Something compelling about the completely undeserved trust being handed him. Face relaxed, long black lashes brushing his freckle-dusted cheeks, Stiles looked so much younger when he slept. He looked like a boy.

Derek's fingers moved to card slowly through Stiles' damp, wild tangle of brown hair. Spiky and unruly at the best of times, it currently looked like the victim of a bomb blast or a tornado. It was ridiculous and ridiculously attractive at the same time, much like Stiles as a whole. He was absurdly enticing crouching next to Derek, studiously listening as he explained how part of the engine assembly worked. He was unsettlingly compelling making mocking quips and arguing baseball minutia. And he was nothing short of breathtaking when he was flushed and naked, bucking underneath Derek and gasping as they fucked. Just the memory alone was enough to send Derek's pulse pounding through his veins.

Objectively, he'd noticed the kid was attractive when he first showed up, but he hadn't _really_ started looking at him until after the night of the baseball game. He'd tried to tell himself to stop, but that hadn't worked out so well, despite the potential danger for both of them and his own well ingrained wariness.

Stiles had fallen into his life like a stone splashing into a pond, casting crazy ripples in every direction. Derek had learned to distrust and fear that kind of unexpected chaos. It usually brought bad things. He told himself it was no good feeling drawn to that wide, mischievous smile, those intelligent dark brown eyes and that smart mouth. No good feeling attracted to this strange young man who dug through his things and asked too many questions. This fidgety, awkward boy with his ridiculous reason for being out here, who didn't want to talk about his past or why he was carrying around rolls of cash. There were so many danger signals, _too many_... and yet ... and yet, here they were.  

Derek had foolishly given Stiles everything he needed to betray him if that's what he was after, but in his heart, he did not truly believe that whatever was up with Stiles had anything to do with him. At least, that's what he told himself, because surely, if he believed that little ingrained gnaw of suspicion in the back of his brain, he would never have let this happen between them, right?

No, Stiles was just a weird, kind of sweet young man who didn't think things through, talked too much and had obviously lousy taste in men.  Derek _needed_ to believe that, because the past few days had been the first time he'd felt happy in years, and tonight ... tonight had been _incredible_. Derek was only just beginning to understand how unexpectedly deep Stiles had already burrowed into his heart and he needed this to be real. He needed it to not be another mistake. Lord knew, he'd already made too many.

This had possibly been the best thing that had ever happened to him, but deep down, he knew he probably should not have fallen into the sweet, sweet temptation Stiles presented to him. For Stiles' sake as much as his own.  The young man had no idea the potential danger of getting involved with him.

Derek had _almost_ done the right thing and tried to warn him, but what was there that he could say?  Surely, it would be all right. Stiles would be fine. Everything had been quiet for so long and Stiles was only passing through. All too soon, he'd be gone. That thought burned like acid in the lonely places of Derek's soul, but he tried to hold onto it as a comfort instead, as a justification. Stiles wouldn't be in his life long enough to be tainted by his curse.  So maybe he could have this, this little bit of something normal, of something he _wanted,_ and it wouldn't lead to disaster, like ... _like it always did._

Derek pressed his eyes shut. Memories played through his mind, their paths familiar and worn. He didn't fight his demons. He didn't try not to remember when they came. He embraced them as a penance and a warning. He made himself watch. He regularly forced himself to remember and to relive it. _All of it._ Over and over. Because those who were gone deserved to be remembered, and he could never afford to forget. Could never let himself make the same mistakes again.

_Flames reaching towards the sky in the middle of the afternoon. Strong, gloved hands pulling him back, kicking and screaming as the heat scorched off his eyebrows and burned his skin. Feet running wildly through the moonlight. Crimson spreading like a blossom around the cruel wooden haft of an arrow. Blood trickling from gasping lips, bubbling as they tried to speak to him one last time. One last word from the beloved voice he'd never hear again. "Run."_

His mind tried to pull away, traitorously unwilling to trod these familiar and painful paths right now, not when he'd just felt so good and had such a wonderful time. Guilt followed quickly and he viciously forced himself to look. To see it all over again, to remember the look in her eyes, the horror, the pain, the loss... _everything he had done to her. Everything for which he could never be forgiven._

He would have died for her. He **should** have died for her. He hadn't. So he forced himself to relive the moment over and over until he was shaking. _Don't you **ever** fucking forget. _

Breathing harshly through his mouth, Derek's stinging eyes sprung open again. His hand had turned into a fist in Stiles' hair, gripping much too tightly. Stiles didn't wake, just stirred and murmured wordlessly, pressing his naked, sticky body closer to Derek instead of trying to escape, a faint smile fluttering across his bruised lips. Whatever his dreams were, they were pleasant.

The peaceful sight of Stiles' sleeping form and the comfortable weight of his body grounded Derek back to the present and he let the burning images in his mind slip away like sand through his fingers.

His fingers gentled again. His increasingly leaden mind was too tired for any more self-flagellation and wearily contented itself with focusing much more pleasantly on the boy in his arms, instead. Maybe he shouldn't have let this happen, but the truth was he didn't regret it. He was only human. He had been alone so long and Stiles ... Stiles was like a force of nature.

Derek traced the smooth, youthful curve of one freckled, angular cheekbone with his thumb. He honestly couldn't understand why the boy seemed to think he was unattractive.  Maybe Stiles really was still growing into his body and had yet to realize that the moth was blossoming into the butterfly. It happened that way sometimes. The teenage years could be brutal. Derek should know, he had spent years as a shy, baby-faced loser who was all elbows and knees and could barely bring himself to talk to people. Maybe if he'd ever felt like he belonged it would have been different. Maybe if he'd ever been in once place long enough to join one of the sports teams he'd admired longingly from afar, or been at one school long enough to get past being the new kid and make some friends ... but that was never meant to be and in the end, he hadn't even finished school, so it wasn't like it mattered.

Stiles shifted in his sleep, a small frown creasing his face. A soft, hoarse whine escaped his lips. Clearly, his dreams had taken a turn for the worse and Derek found himself inexplicably drawn to comfort him. Leaning down he kissed Stiles' forehead. Gentle, chaste pressure meant to reassure.

Stiles unconsciously burrowed closer to him. _"Don't be mad. Not my fault. I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry,"_ he slurred, murmuring in his sleep, the words trailing off into an incoherent, pleading, repetitive apology.

Derek knew Stiles was speaking to his dreams where he was probably in a very different type of situation, and tried not to be disturbed by being mistaken for the boy's father.  Instead he just wrapped his arms reassuringly around Stiles and held him, rubbing his back gently. "It's okay, Stiles. You're only dreaming. It's okay," he whispered, wondering if he should wake him.

Stiles didn't wake, but his tense body did relax in Derek's arms and the murmuring stopped, eventually trailing off into a gentle snoring.

Stiles' skin was literally sticking to Derek at this point and as much as his body was telling him he needed to rest for a while, he felt like he should do something to clean them both up a little and at least get them under the blanket. He was starting to feel uncomfortably exposed.

\--------

Stiles had no memory of how he'd ended up under the old blanket instead of on top of it. He woke groggily to the sensation of someone shaking him. It was pitch dark and he didn't understand why anyone would want to be up right now, so he grumbled and rolled over, sliding easily back into sleep.

This happened several times and he was vaguely aware of Derek saying something about needing to get up, and the station, and _whatever_ , but he couldn't bring his mind to focus or care when he was so sleepy.

The next thing he was aware of it was uncomfortably cold, the blanket was gone and so was Derek. He felt rather than saw his clothes on the bed next to him, his jeans cool under his touch.  A jolt of panic went through him at the thought that he'd been abandoned and he sat up quickly, blinking back sleep and trying to fumble into his jeans before he was properly awake.

"Derek?" he called uncertainly, then hesitated, not sure he had license to use that name anymore. "Miguel?" he tried instead.

To his relief, Derek's form appeared immediately in the doorway, outlined in the faint moonlight. "Finally awake, are you?  Come on, get dressed, we should get back."

Stiles couldn't see Derek's face in the darkness, but he could hear the smile in his voice and his heart slowed back down. He yawned, drawing his socks on more slowly and noticing with a wince how much his body protested the motion. "Back?  Dude, what _time_ is it?"

Derek's outline shrugged. "Don't know. Couple hours to dawn, maybe. We slept most of the night."

Stiles gave him a stink-eyed expression that was probably lost in the gloom. "Clearly, our definitions of _most_ are very different," he grumbled as he pulled on his tee and shoved his feet into his shoes. "What the hell kind of freak gets up before dawn," he muttered.

Stiles would have happily slept until noon, but Derek seemed anxious to get back to the station and the longer Stiles was awake the more he was realizing how terribly thirsty and in need of a bath he was. His mouth was so dry it felt like a hangover and he was sticky and gummy in all kinds of unmentionable places. He was also very stiff and very sore, facts he discovered clearly when he got up and tried to walk.  Hiking back to the station wasn't going to be pleasant, but he'd manage. Maybe he could nap for a while when they got back. Derek couldn't possibly object if he needed more sleep ... needed to, say... stay a little longer? Stiles knew he was probably asking for trouble, but he couldn't bring himself to care.  He really, _really_ didn't want to leave. Not yet. 

Derek had disappeared again. It was almost pitch black in the room, but Stiles' sleepy eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness and the moonlight coming in through the partially open door acted as a beacon, leading him out into the cool embrace of the night. Derek was standing a few feet away, at the top of the broken stairs leading down to the bomb shelter.

Stiles limped to him, feeling wobbly and exhausted, but undeniably happy.  His body was telling him he should have taken it a little easier and perhaps not shown quite so much abandon on his first outing, but Stiles made a habit of jumping into things at the deep end and he wasn't sorry.

Derek was fully dressed with the shotgun tucked under one arm. He was studying the inert flashlight in his hands, whacking the handle softly against his palm with a frown. "Batteries are dead," he told Stiles as the teen joined him. "I forgot to turn it off," he admitted a little sheepishly.

Stiles understood now why it had seemed so much darker than when he'd fallen asleep. He eyed the sky, blinking up at the full, pale moon hanging low above them within the majestic firmament of infinite stars you could only see in places like this, far away from the light pollution of urban sprawl.

Forgetting what he'd been doing, Stiles just stood there for a minute, wavering and gawking up at the majesty of the sky in hazy, sleepy wonder. It was breathtaking. "Dude... I can _see_ the Milky Way, and ... like ... why they even _call_ it that," he remarked, apropos of nothing except what was going through his own head. He kept his chin tilted towards the sky, a soft, unfocused smile on his face. "Don't know about the _milky_ part though, it's more like a - a scarf or something. The _Scarf-y Way_... yeah, okay, no, Milky is better, even if it does sound like a candy bar which is kind of making me really hungry. I didn't realize sex would make me so hungry and thirsty, by the way."

Stiles looked back towards Derek to get his opinion on this topic only to find the other man watching him with a deeply amused and decidedly fond expression.  He frowned, eyes squinting. "What?!"

Derek shook his head. "Nothing. I've never met anybody who ... talks quite like you do."

Stiles shrugged, grin turning wry. "That's because I'm just special. So. Anyway. The moon. The moon is pretty bright tonight. Think we can make it back okay without the flashlight, or will we, like break our necks or something?" he asked around an unexpected yawn. As much as he'd wanted to stay and sleep before, he now found the lure of water to both drink and wash with beckoning him from afar like a siren song. Scratches he hadn't even realized he had on his hipbones and inner thighs were starting to sting and smart and his tongue felt too large inside an inordinately sore mouth.  

Derek shook his head, seeming unconcerned about the lack of artificial light. "No, we should be fine. I know the way back and it's not a very challenging route.  We'll be careful and it will be fine."

"Okay," Stiles agreed amiably. He was trying to move as normally as possible but by the time they'd made their way up the steep incline leading out of the ravine it was obvious he was struggling.

Derek slowed, coming to a halt beside him and regarding Stiles with concern. "Hey, are you okay?"

Stiles grinned ruefully. " _Dude_ , I feel like a locomotive plowed my ass, but yeah, I'm good. Really good. Although I _do_ need a drink and a shower something fierce."

Derek's cheeks colored enough for it to be visible in the moonlight. He looked embarrassed and guilty and a little aroused all at the same time. "I'm sorry," he apologized sincerely. "Is there anything I can do? Should we wait? Maybe you should rest more."

"Oh _now_ you think of that," Stiles teased. He shook his head, having already been thinking through the pros and cons of the available options. "Nah, it will probably actually be worse when the sun comes up and everything gets hot and sweltery again, besides, I'm _parched_. I can make it, I'll be fine."

They made slow progress, both because of the darkness and because Derek was being careful to keep his pace to whatever was most comfortable for Stiles. He eventually gave the younger man a supporting arm to lean on as they neared the last leg of their walk, which Stiles did not refuse.

"You know..." Derek said eventually. "You probably shouldn't go driving right away in your ... condition."

Stiles grinned at him, eyes dancing in the starlight.  "Are you asking me to stay a little longer?"

Derek flushed and looked down, as if knowing he'd said something he shouldn't but unable to bring himself to take it back. "If you can," he said softly. "If you don't have better places to be."

"Can't think of any right now."  Stiles' smile was radiant. He felt deeply relieved at the prospect of their parting being postponed, even if only for a while. He knew he'd have to go eventually, of course. He knew that sooner or later he'd have to leave this lovely little fantasy and face the world again, and the consequences of what sent him out here in the first place ... but not yet.  _Not yet._  

Stiles Stilinski was good at ignoring problems until they either went away or blew up spectacularly in his face.  He'd rather not think about how often it turned out the latter, rather than the former.

Derek said nothing but he looked pleased, giving Stiles' arm a little squeeze.

After a while they finally reached the hill overlooking the station. Stiles felt relieved when he recognized where they were, but frowned curiously as they neared the top of the rise and became able to see the station below through the trees. Beside him, Derek froze in his tracks.

There were two unfamiliar cars parked out front of the station, motors silent and lights off.  Having left abruptly and planned to return much sooner, Derek and Stiles had not turned off either the diner or the station lights before they departed. The glow they cast illuminated human shapes moving about down below in the predawn twilight. 

For a moment, Stiles was afraid that Derek had been right and it might be the kids from town come back to cause trouble, but there was no sound of raucous voices, music or active vandalism in progress and as he squinted he realized the strangers were definitely not teenagers. 

"Huh," he murmured. "Looks like you've got more lost customers."  Stiles started to take another step forward, but Derek grabbed his arm, jerking him back and keeping him in the cover of the trees.  He pressed his hand over Stiles' mouth to silence his questions and this time it was not sexy, this time it was frightening because Derek's face had gone pale and there was _fear_ in his eyes.

"Shh!" Derek hushed, voice barely a whisper as he nudged them both carefully further back into the concealing trees.  In the moonlight below, Stiles could just make out the shape of four large men and a pretty blonde woman whose hair looked platinum in the pale light. 

"Those aren't customers," Derek murmured almost inaudibly and Stiles realized the hand gripping his wrist was trembling from either fear or anger. Maybe both. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dun, dun, duuuuun...._ stuff is going to start happening now. :) I really can't tell you how much all of your wonderful feedback and reviews inspires me and moitivates me to write faster. No pressure, I know not everybody has time, but if you do and you want to leave a comment, that's super awesome. :) Either way, thanks for reading!  <3


	9. Chapter 9

In the stillness of the night, Stiles and Derek could just faintly hear the voices of the people below. Whispers or even normal, low speech would have been lost to them, but it wasn't hard to hear the woman. She was on the phone and she was angry, both of which made her clear, melodic voice loud enough to carry. They seemed to be coming in on the tail end of some conversation.

" _Goddamn_ it, Reed!" the woman seethed. "I told you to take 754, not Centerville!  You're twenty miles north of us on the wrong road, of _course_ you don't see us. If we miss him because of you, I will have your balls, you hear me? And I don't mean _figuratively._ " She must have hung up then, because her hand dropped away from her ear. She addressed her other companions in exasperation and only slightly lowered tones. "Can you believe that idiot?  Time is of the essence and he can't fucking read a road sign."

Stiles thought this Reed guy was probably getting a worse rap than he actually had coming for the error. Once you got off the highway, the route out here was poorly marked.  He remembered passing the Centerville exit, and to be fair, there _was_ a directional sign for rural route 754 right before it that made it kind of confusing.  Stiles had gone by it, thought he'd missed the turn, and was actually looking for some place to turn around when he'd accidentally stumbled on the right exit after all. 

The people below were still speaking.  Stiles lost a few words here or there as the voices dropped, but he got the impression that whoever they were, the strangers had likely already been waiting here for some time. One of the men, a fellow in a cowboy hat, seemed particularly impatient and dissatisfied. 

"You ask me, bringing Reed up here is nothing but a waste of time," Cowboy Hat remarked, his annoyed voice just loud enough to be audible. 

"I don't believe anyone _did_ ask you," the woman retorted tartly, an edge of dark amusement coloring her irritation.

Cowboy Hat continued regardless. "It makes no sense for the kid to run on foot when he's at a fucking garage surrounded by cars. I'm telling you, he lit out of here, _in a car_ , and is probably a hundred miles away by now while we're sitting here with our thumbs up our asses." The tone of his voice suggested that this was not their first disagreement.  "We should be out there chasing him down."

Slowly, with exaggerated care, the woman lifted her phone and made another call, pointedly staring at Cowboy Hat the whole time.

"Sven, it's Kate. Have you seen anyone on the road heading south?  No?  Okay, thanks." She hung up and repeated the procedure, this time asking a guy named Mike about the road to the north.  Then she turned back to her companion. "Happy?  If he _is_ out there on the road, we'll find him, don't you worry your pretty little head," the woman's tone was mocking.

Cowboy Hat seemed the exact opposite of happy. If anything, the news made him even more agitated. "Oh, _your_ people are watching the road while _we_ wait here. I _see,_ " he said caustically, his voice laden with an insinuation that Stiles didn't understand.

Stiles couldn't see the woman very well at this distance, but when she spoke again her tone of voice suggested she was smirking. "Yes, Yates. I know how to cover my bases. Imagine that. I also have people watching both Elmira and Gold Ridge in case he somehow miraculously slides past us and makes it that far, but he won't. Hale _didn't_ drive away. There's half eaten food in the building. He and his companion didn't plan their departure. They must have heard us coming and lit out into the woods, knowing it would be too easy to spot and pursue the lights of another car on a single road this deserted. If they hit the road, don't you think they would have taken the fully packed car sitting out front?  Those tracks going up the hill..."

"I know, I know, the _tracks_ ," Cowboy Hat, whose name was apparently Yates, griped. He sounded unconvinced and imbibed the last word with the type of inflection one generally reserved for talking about snake oil and Big Foot. " _They go off into the woods and disappear among the rocks. Two people went this way, both male, one a little shorter than the other_ ," he badly parroted a high, woman's voice and then snorted. "Give me a break, Annie Oakley. There's no way for us to know when those were made, or how long the kid's been gone. We've been here for _two fucking hours_. We searched and there's _nothing._ Bringing in a whole _pack_ of dogs isn't going to change that. Let's cut the crap. You think I don't know what you're doing?" his tone had become accusing.

Kate folded her arms. "Oh? And what exactly, is that?" she asked in a sickly sweet tone of voice that said exactly how little patience she had left for this discussion. The raised voices had brought two more men out into view from around back of the diner, bringing the total number of visible strangers up to seven. One of the men drifted subtly into a flanking positions behind the woman, while the other four milled around near Yates, their body language subtly dividing them up into whose side of the issue they were on. If being outnumbered worried the woman, she didn't show it.

"You're stalling, Kate," Yates accused, flatly. "Keeping me and my boys here cooling our heels while your people try to pick him up on the road. Don't think I don't know how you operate, or how much you need this win in your column to fix you up with the big guy.  You're pissed off because _our_ man located and identified Hale first. We did all the work and now you're trying to weasel us out of the bounty. I heard how things went down in Lawrenceville. You're not going to stick me with the short end of the stick like you did Granger, screw that. You want word to get around that this is how you do business? I think - "

Kate moved with the abrupt and deadly grace of a striking viper and an instant later Yates was flat on his back, the sharp, pointed heel of her boot pressed against his throat. "You _think_?" she purred, sounding more amused than angry and somehow managing to be all the more frightening for it. "Really? Because I can't say I've seen any indication of that yet, Yates," she continued with dark humor, her words crisp and clear and carrying despite the lowered tone.

Suddenly everyone was holding weapons and it looked like a gun convention. Yates' four guys had hand guns and Kate's companion had something bigger.  It looked like some kind of automatic weapon, Stiles couldn't really tell from here. Kate's handgun was pointed down towards Yates in an almost casual fashion and she did not bother to even look up at the others, or acknowledge the stand-off, as if it mattered not at all to her.  

"Are you really this stupid?" she asked calmly, pressing down harder on the man's neck. "How do you think this is going to go down?  You think there would ever be a hole deep enough for you, for _any_ of you to hide in if anything happened to me?"

Everyone remained tense, but there was a slight, uneasy shifting in Yates' companions posture that seemed to indicate they knew her threat was not empty. 

"Oh, precious, you just don't think things through, do you?" Kate crooned.  "Maybe you're a big splash in your little pond, but you're playing in the big leagues now. You're not nearly as indispensible as you think and let's not forget who is paying whom, here. You think I give two shits about _money_ as long as the job gets done?  Granger couldn't hack it. He fucked up, and dead weight gets cut. You going to start being dead weight, Yates? Because I will put up with having your cute but regrettably not very bright ass around for _exactly_ as long as you are useful to me," the woman warned. "Don't put stock in any rumors you've heard _._ I've got no problems with the _'big guy,_ '" she hooked ironic air quotes around the term he'd used.  "He just likes to play his little games. Wants to make sure I stay sharp ... and trust me, Yates, I could use _you_ like a grindstone all day long." She managed to infuse both biting sarcasm and derogatory innuendo into the statement.

"Now, up until this bout of complete stupidity, you and your crew _have_ been relatively useful, so I'm not going to bury you right here. Not _yet,_ okay?" her voice had become disturbingly cheerful. "But, you need to understand right now that if you _ever_ speak to me like that again, you're going to lose something ... _important_." Kate ground her heel down harder, making the man under her yelp and squirm. "And get your facts straight. Annie Oakley was a sharp shooter, not a tracker. When _you_ have bagged as many big game prizes as I did by the time I was _fourteen, then_ you can talk to me about reading signs. Until then, do us all a favor, love and just stand around looking pretty. You ruin everything when you open your mouth, you really do."

_Well hot damn ..._ Stiles' eyebrows were riding up near his hairline as he watched the exchange. He didn't get to see any more of it, however, because Derek seemed to have finally unfrozen himself and was now quietly but insistently pulling Stiles backwards and away. 

"They're bringing in dogs to track us," Derek whispered urgently against Stiles' ear.  "We have to get out of here."

Even knowing as little as he did about what was going on, Stiles had to agree that was probably a good suggestion.  Thus far, luck had been on their side.  Thanks to their assignation, they hadn't been at the station when trouble arrived and had either been too far away to be within whatever radius these people had searched, or had had simply been overlooked in the darkness. The night was proving to be their friend and the lack of a working flashlight may have saved their lives. Any light up here on the hill would have been visible from the below before the station and the danger it contained was visible to them. Such an obvious beacon in this dark landscape would surely not have gone unseen.  Having already been dealt so many favors by fortune, it seemed unwise to push their luck any further.

They were outnumbered and outgunned and although Stiles hadn't understood a lot of things about the conversations he'd just overheard, he _did_ understand that for whatever reason these people were after Derek and their behavior spelled TROUBLE in all caps. His mind was reeling with curiosity and nebulous supposition as he tried to make sense of the new data.  There were a lot of unknowns, but one thing was certain: whoever these people were, he was in no great hurry to mess with them until he knew a whole hell of a lot more about what was going on.

Allowing Derek to pull him away, he followed the other man back the way they'd come. They slipped away as silently as they could, thankful for the darkness, the concealing trees and the soft carpet of dirt and pine needles that did not crunch or rustle noisily underfoot.

Once they'd made it a fair distance away, Derek seemed to judge it safe enough to risk making more noise by picking up the pace.  Stiles tried to stay close on his heels, dodging around trees, climbing over boulders and scrambling down the steep sides of shallow ravines. Struggling through a rough patch of scrub growth and around a winding rocky outcropping, Stiles lost sight of the other man and he felt a knot of fear fist in his stomach.  It was dark, he was completely turned around and he had no idea where he was or even who he was running from.

"Miguel!" he hissed, not daring to raise his voice above a whisper as he moved forward blindly in what he _hoped_ was the right direction.  "Miguel?  Derek!" he switched names, no longer sure what he should be calling his companion as he strained to find him in the dark.  There was crunch of feet moving against rock and Derek came back into view on the ridge opposite him.  Holding out his hand wordlessly, he pulled Stiles up to join him and then took off again before Stiles could ask any of the million questions circling through his head.

"Wait!  Where are we going?  Who were those people?!"  Stiles wanted to know, but he got no answer other than Derek's rapidly retreating back and his continued urgings to hurry.  There was nothing to do but follow or get left behind.

His mind whirled, unable to stop trying to fit the new pieces he had into some kind of understandable shape even as he tried to navigate his aching body quickly across the rough terrain.  He'd already assumed Derek was in hiding. It seemed a pretty safe bet those people back at the station were part of the reason. _There was a bounty on him, but why?  Was he in fact some kind of escaped fugitive and those were some really unsavory bounty hunters? Or were they professional killers and it was the "price on your head" kind of bounty?  Why?  Had Derek been part of some kind of underworld dealing gone wrong?  An innocent victim who found out something they shouldn't?  But if he had no reason to fear the law, why wouldn't Miguel ... Derek ... or whoever he was, have gone to the cops?_

There were too many possible threads to follow and Stiles wasn't up to cataloging them as well as usual, distracted by his burning muscles and the growing stitch in his side. He struggled to keep the dirty white back of Derek's sleeveless tee in sight.  _Was he following a criminal through the darkness right now?_ To be honest, Stiles wasn't sure that mattered to him much at the moment. Not unless Derek really was a serial killer or something, which he doubted.  Of bigger concern was whether Derek was going to cut and run when he realized Stiles was slowing him down.

Stiles tried _not_ to slow him down. He tried to keep up, but he was limping badly now and his throat was so dry it burned. The demanding pace was brutal on his aching body. It _hurt._ It hurt so much tears were starting to gather in his eyes and he finally had to stop. He leaned against a tree to catch his breath, panting and clutching the stitch in his side even though that wasn't where the worst of the pain was coming from. _Shit, shit, shit._

Derek didn't realize he'd lost him at first, and Stiles had a few bad moments of feeling desolately sure the other man was going to just leave him behind before Derek doubled back to find him.

"Stiles?  Stiles, we can't stop. Come on, we have to go," he urged, his drawn features looking decidedly grim in the moonlight.

"Easy for you to say, dude, you didn't just get fucked ten ways from Sunday," Stiles panted, made irritable and sarcastic by pain and the creeping edges of fear.  His fingers dug into the rough tree bark as he tried to deal. "I wasn't _planning_ on going for a jog after having wild marathon sex, okay?  This sucks. It _sucks._ And who the hell are those people anyway?"

Derek just shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry, but there isn't time.  You have to trust me; we need to move or we're going to die.  I can... maybe I can carry you?"

Stiles knew there was no way that was going to work, not in this rough terrain.  Across a level surface and at a more reasonable pace, Derek was probably strong enough to pull it off, but under these conditions it would just make Stiles even more of a hindrance than he already was. He was scared and confused and he wanted answers, _damn it!_ But Derek's fear and urgency was catching and he could feel it taking root in his gut and eating its way outward.

Giving Derek a flat look and muttering a pained, annoyed curse by way of answer, Stiles pushed off the tree and forced himself to keep going. Clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, he pulled on the years of endurance training from his Lacrosse and Track days in high school. He didn't work out, but he'd always been very active by nature and that stood him in good stead now. 

They weren't exactly _running_ ; it was more of a hurried, loping power-walk.  While the moonlight had been bright enough for a comfortable stroll, it did not serve nearly so well for navigating at full tilt through difficult and completely unfamiliar terrain. There were stretches when running was possible, but there was also a lot of groping around through puddles of darkness and fighting through biting brambles and undergrowth that sprang up unexpectedly, like spider webs in the darkness. _At least there were no giant fucking spiders,_ Stiles' mind supplied with an abysmal attempt at optimism.

They got turned around in a dead-end box canyon, and Stiles was almost certain he passed the same fallen tree twice. Thankfully, Derek had an almost unerring sense of direction and managed to get them out of the loop and on the move again.

The landscape blended into shapes and shadows, shifting shades of black edged in white and silver moonlight. Stiles no longer took in distinct features, merely the impression of it as a whole as he pushed on and on for what felt like an age. The journey never seemed to end and finally he had to stop again. Bruised thigh muscles trembling, calves burning and lungs heaving, he leaned his back against a tall boulder for support, making a time-out signal with his hands.

"Okay, okay, enough. Breather time. Breather," he gasped. Despite the coolness of the night, perspiration was running into his eyes and making his clothes cling to him.  Running had only made his thirst worse and he was desperate for water.

Derek looked just as sweaty and almost as tired. He clearly didn't want to stop, but acquiesced silently to the need. Resting the shotgun he still carried butt down on the ground, he leaned against the rocks beside Stiles. Facing the bolder and resting his free hand and forehead against the cool stone ridges, he panted harshly for oxygen.  His shoulders trembled with each heave of his lungs and Stiles didn't know if it was fatigue or something else.  The other man's face had gone blank and unreadable, like he'd had a bad shock and was pulling deep into himself.

"Okay, yeah, breathing, breathing is good," Stiles mumbled as he started to catch his breath. "Now, how about you tell me _why_ exactly we're running through the wilds in the middle of the night and who the gun toting psychos and crazy kickass blonde chick is?"

Derek pushed himself away from the rocks and shook his head. "Those dogs could be on our trail already," he protested breathlessly.  "We need to make it to the river before they catch up; throw them off our scent.  There's no -"

" _MAKE_ time," Stiles demanded, cutting him off. "I don't need the autobiography, dude, give me the cliff notes. I am not budging another step until I know who the hell I'm running _from_ and _why._ "  Stiles remembered the distant swath of green he'd seen yesterday from the hilltop and guessed that must be the river Derek was heading them towards. Using it to hide their trail was a good idea, but Stiles was spent. He needed a few minutes before he could continue and he really, _really_ needed answers.

Agitated, Derek ran one hand through his perspiration wet hair. He looked up at the stars for a long moment, then dropped his gaze to the earth.  "Okay," he murmured. "Okay." He drew in a deep breath. Let it out. Closed his eyes. "The short version? When I was young, my parents were crucial witnesses against ... well, I guess you could call them a powerful criminal organization.  Like the mafia, I suppose, only ... not. It's complicated."

Stiles blinked, eyes narrowing as his mind processed this with the other information he already knew. He got a feeling there was a lot more to this story, but he could work with a summary for now. "So, you're in witness protection? Does that mean there's, like, a Marshal or somebody we can contact?"

Derek shook his head, his eyes darkening. "No, I _was_ in witness protection.  I _was_ in witness protection when they burned down our house with my parents and little sister inside. I _was still_ in witness protection when they caught up with us again and killed my older sister, Laura. Not anymore. The FBI couldn't protect us. The roots go too deep, these people's influence is too far-reaching.  Once, maybe was a fluke, but finding us twice?  There had to be a leak somewhere.  After Laura, I knew it would never stop so I just kept running. I don't know how the fuck they found me again, here, after all this time, but we _have_ to go. They are utterly ruthless and their idea of cleaning up loose ends is to eliminate them. I'd like to say the less you know, the safer you'll be, but the truth is it won't matter to them. If they find you with me, Stiles, they'll kill you just to be on the safe side."

Feeling like his eyes must look as wide as those of a cartoon character, Stiles struggled to take all this in. "Wow. Shit, Derek, man ... I'm sorry. That's - that's _horrible._ " He knew that didn't _begin_ to cover it, but what else was there to say?  There was so much horror to be had in the short explanation that it was almost unreal and that made it hard to process. It was the kind of thing you saw in movies, not in real life.

Stiles shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around it all. "It figures. Car breaks down, handsome stranger in the middle of nowhere with secrets ... I just _knew_ this was going to end up more horror movie than romantic comedy," he groaned resignedly before he could think better of it. He probably shouldn't have said that. It seemed too petty and selfish after learning something so shockingly awful, but he had a lousy verbal filter at the best of times and now was decidedly _not_ the best of times. He was hurting and on edge and fuck his life, seriously, _fuck his life_.

"I'm sorry," Derek apologized, looking away. "I'm sorry for getting you into this, I really am. Things had been quiet for so long, I thought ... but I should have known. I shouldn't have risked it. Come on. Come on, Stiles, we have to get going again. They're covering Elmira and Gold Ridge, but if we can make sure the dogs won't be able to track us, we can give them the slip and try to hike out to Barnett Hills.  They won't expect us there. I hope."

"Barnett Hills? But that's like, 100 miles away!" Stiles protested, recognizing the name of the town and having a vague, general notion of its proximity.  He wearily pushed off the rocks, stumbling after Derek as the other man started walking again. He wanted to tell Derek he didn't blame him. He knew he _shouldn't_ blame him, not after the truly awful crap it sounded like he'd been through, and he _didn't,_ not really; but Stiles didn't have the strength, and the words wouldn't come.

"More like 80 miles," Derek allowed, not encouraging his companion at all.

"That'll take us like, a _week,_ " Stiles pointed out. "We don't have any food, or water and we know zip about the terrain ... unless you're also secretly a survivalist expert?" he added hopefully.

Derek grimaced and shook his head. "Urban, yeah, wilderness... not so much, but I can get along for a couple of days. We can follow the river for water."

"Which will probably take us dozens of miles out of our way, and will be exactly where the crazy killer people will look for us if they lose our trail in the water to begin with. That Kate lady sounds like she knows what she's doing. If she's some kind of big game hunter, we'll be at a total disadvantage out in the wilderness where we don't know what we're doing and she does." Stiles frowned thoughtfully, the wheels in his head starting to spin to life at the challenge before them despite his exhaustion and pain.

"Well, what do _you_ suggest then?" Derek inquired tersely, as if well aware of the shortcomings of the plan and not liking to be reminded of them when he didn't see any other options.

"We _act_ like we're trying to get away by following the river," Stiles proposed, warming to the plan as he spoke. "We leave a false trail. Go up the river for a ways, leave the water, go on a ways more, then find some place that's rocky or something and wander around in it to confuse the trail. Then, we carefully go back to the water exactly the way we came. While they're busy following that trail and trying to figure out where it picks back up again when it disappears, we slip behind them and go back downstream. We come back here, where they're least likely to expect us to show up again. We grab my jeep and hightail it out of here. We head out cross-country to avoid anybody who might still be watching the road and make for the highway. It'll be rough, but I know my baby can do it. I've taken him cross-country before. The highway should only be around twenty or thirty miles from the station as the crow flies.  If we can make the highway, we can lose ourselves in the traffic and ... figure things out from there." 

Derek frowned as if turning the idea over in his head and trying to find fault with it. There were plenty of problematic variables, Stiles wouldn't deny that, but it was no less insane than trying to strike out across country on foot and evade skilled hunters for days in the woods. Decidedly less so, in his opinion.

"What if they leave guards at the station?" Derek finally asked. 

Stiles rubbed his nose and cocked his head thoughtfully. "Well ... there's a lot of ground to cover, so they're going to want as many people as possible for the hunt. They would probably only leave one or two at the station, at most. You have the shotgun still, so maybe we could get the drop on them?  I'm not saying it's a great plan, but it's better odds than out here man, you know it is."

Derek did seem to know. "Okay," he agreed reluctantly. Stiles got the feeling that his hesitation wasn't so much because he was unsure of the plan as it was that he was fighting the instinctive urge to simply put as much distance as possible between themselves and their pursuers.

"Okay," Derek said again, a little more firmly this time. "We'll give it a try."

A scattering of birds started singing in the trees, heralding a dawn that was still unseen but must be slowly approaching.  They reached the top of a ridge and Stiles was relieved to see the glitter of moving water down below them. The rushing sounds of the river carried up to them like a promise of sanctuary.  

Then another sound came to their ears.  The distant sound of barking dogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now we know a _little_ more about the situation, but much more is yet to come... :)


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles and Derek scrambled down the steep hill towards the river, slipping and sliding on the loose, rocky terrain. Each jolting step jarred unpleasantly through Stiles and set his teeth on edge, but the distant sound of the dogs and the urgency that Derek's story has inspired in him kept him moving.

They reached riverbank in a near tumble and ran splashing out into the stream, staying to the edges and away from the deeper channel in the center were the current was strongest.  The river wasn't huge, but it wasn't narrow either. The water was deep and the current swift. Even at the edges of the waterway it was already up to Stiles' knees. Further out it looked deep enough to support small water craft.

Knowing that it wasn't usually a great idea to drink out of unknown bodies of water and feeling too desperately parched to care, Stiles bent, cupping blissfully cold and refreshing water in his palm. He drank, slurping urgently until he no longer felt like he was going to die of dehydration. Dying of other causes seemed to still be on the table, but there was something to be said for dealing with one problem at a time.

"Upstream," Stiles urged, wiping the water dripping from his chin with the back of his hand and slogging off in that direction when it looked like Derek might start heading the other way. "We need to go upstream." He shivered. His body was hot from exertion and the water was cold.

"Going with the current would be easier, we'd go faster," Derek pointed out as he followed, both of them sloshing their way through the stiff opposition of the water pushing and tugging at their legs. The footing was uneven and prone to sudden changes in depth. There was no steady, gradual incline into deeper water. Instead, the rocky riverbed dipped and rolled in jagged points and jetties. Sometimes the water was at mid-calf, and sometimes it rose up to their waists.

"I know, which is exactly why they'll look downstream first," Stiles pointed out.  "...unless they have enough dogs to search both banks in both directions at the same time," he added with a frown. "But either way, we'll want the current with us when we try to slip back, especially if we need to dodge searchers coming the other direction at the same time." 

Derek seemed satisfied with this logic and they pressed on, sometimes wading, sometimes outright swimming their way upstream with the distant sound of the hounds howling at their backs.  At first the cold water actually felt good on Stiles' sore muscles and stinging scrapes. Then it began to feel too cold as his body temperature dropped and his wet jeans chafed irritatingly at his skin.

The dark water was like black ink, highlighted by constantly moving glitters of white in the moonlight. The night rendered it opaque, their legs disappearing beneath them as if sunk into molasses.  They couldn't see the submerged ground they were traversing at all and had to work their way along by feel and a certain amount of blind, foolhardy faith. Trying to move as quickly as possible only increased the difficulty. Thankfully, they were both strong swimmers, because they lost their footing more than once and were soon drenched head to toe. It was a miracle Derek managed to hang onto the shotgun he was carrying, although Stiles wondered how useful it was going to be after the repeated dunking.

In places, the steep banks rose up into cliffs, blotting out the sky and the moon. All that could be seen then was a thin ribbon of stars overhead, distant and remote and illuminating nothing but themselves. Stiles had used the term _pitch black_ before without really understanding what it meant.  Now he did. He literally could not see Derek even when he was only a few inches away. He could see nothing. It was like being blind. With the current tugging hungrily at his legs and the ground shifting about beneath his feet, it also was more than a little terrifying.  A familiar shortness of breath started to squeeze his chest and he fought it back stubbornly.  He'd not had a panic attack in a while, and now was definitely not the time.  

He felt something warm brush his chest and then his arm. He realized it was Derek's hand, searching back for him as if seeking to assure himself that his companion was still behind him.  Stiles fumbled about until he caught the groping hand in his own, gripping the other man's fingers. Just like that, he felt the invisible fist around his chest loosen a little. _Huh, well that was pretty nifty._

Suddenly Derek's hand went taut in his, clenching and nearly getting yanked away as the other man lost his footing with a splash and was dragged backwards by the rough, tumbling current.  Stiles' grip tightened reflexively, struggling to hold on as the sharp tug dislodged his footing as well. The rough, thundering water tugged at them like a hungry beast.

Stiles slithered several feet across the wet, invisible riverbank until his feet and shins banged suddenly into a submerged bolder. He scrambled to grab onto it with his free arm, bracing his waterlogged sneakers against it for leverage and leaning his body backwards. Straining, he tugged until Derek's back heaved up against his chest.  Quickly wrapping his arms around the other man, Stiles shifted them both so that the water was pressing them _into_ the bolder instead of away from it. Breathing rapidly and clutching Derek's chest hard, he fought to keep them both upright and anchored. He was unable to see Derek, but he could feel the strong planes of muscle beneath his arms and his fingers twisted in his wet t-shirt for purchase.

After a minute of awkward struggling, Derek managed to get his feet back under him. Stiles let go then, except for his hand. That, Stiles kept hold of, and Derek seemed to have no objection. They didn't speak. They would have needed to shout to be heard above the roar of the water in this canyon and that didn't feel safe. The night also created a kind of damper of its own, as if the darkness and the cold had sapped their voices. Still, they continued to push forward and slowly, eventually, the impenetrable gloom began to lighten. 

It happened so gradually that Stiles didn't even recognize the change at first, until suddenly rocks and water started to have form again, like subtle shades on an under-exposed photo.  Slowly, the sky lightened until finally daylight dawned in a glory of pinks and oranges above them.

The rising sun helped perk their flagging spirits. It made their path easier to see and significantly less treacherous. It warmed Stiles' chilled body, making the coolness of the water gradually feel refreshing again. Unfortunately, it also made them feel increasingly exposed. 

Stiles hadn't realized how comfortably anonymous the otherwise terrifying darkness had made him feel until suddenly it was gone. There was probably some kind of deep meaning in there about how the grass was always greener, _yadda, yadda, yadda,_ but he wasn't feeling particularly philosophical at the moment, just tired, wet and wishing the river provided better cover.

The intermittent sounds of the dogs remain a constant in the distance behind them. Not so close as to make them panic, but close enough to keep them on edge.  Either sound carried very well out here, or there _were_ enough dogs for their pursuers to cover the river in both directions. Either way, the sounds remained reassuringly faint for the present. 

Stiles figured - or at least, he _hoped_ \- that even with the slower pace they'd had to maintain during the pre-dawn part of their journey, it would still take their pursuers a fair amount of time to catch up. With luck, they may have first had to work out his and Derek's initial route out to the bomb shelter and then back to the station before following them to the river.  Even if luck was against them, as was more usually the case, and the dogs had picked up the more direct trail straight from the hill behind the station to the river, their pursuers would still have to waste time working their way along both sides of the bank with the dogs in order to not miss picking up their exit trail, while he and Derek could simply forge on as fast as their weary limbs could carry them. The river cut straight and level through the landscape, while the surrounding terrain rolled and dipped dramatically. It would take longer to navigate on foot. 

Stiles hoped that was going to be enough of an advantage. He hoped their pursuers didn't have any easy access, immediate access to boats. He also hoped he wasn't going to fall asleep on his feet before they'd made good their escape. He'd never felt quite this tired.

The banks sloped away sharply on either side of the river. In some places they were almost flat, the land about them lying at the same elevation as the water, while in others sheer canyon walls rose about them on either side.

They stayed in the water for at least another hour before finally dragging themselves exhausted and dripping onto the opposite bank.  Stiles was achy, sore and tired, but he gave Derek a grin, wiping damp hair out of his eyes as they heaved themselves up out of the water. "Well, this isn't exactly how I thought today would go, but hey, at least I got my bath," he said with wry optimism as they made their way up the riverbank with leaden feet.

Derek grinned at him with a sort of quizzical expression, as if he thought Stiles was kind of insane, but that maybe that wasn't entirely a bad thing. 

They laid the false trail Stiles had suggested earlier, knowing they could not stop to rest no matter how much they both wanted to do so.  They left as confusing a trail as they could, sometimes splitting up only to come back together again, doubling back on themselves, and generally trying to make it difficult to follow in order to waste as much of their pursuers' time as possible, while at the same time keeping track of it themselves so they would be able to retrace their steps once they were done.

That part was a lot harder it had seemed in theory, but they managed. At different points along their route, they used the slowly drying moisture from their wet clothing combined with dry earth to make a mud they could paint into a distinctive L shape on some visible surface, preferably a rock where it would stand out. On their return journey, they followed the marks like a trail of breadcrumbs, smudging the marks back out as they passed them. If they couldn't get rid of the marks entirely, it would hopefully look like nothing more than the accidental slips and smudges of two muddy, exhausted people running for their lives.  

Stiles proved especially keen at coming up with ploys and unique ways to use the terrain to their advantage, but by the time they were done his strength was almost completely spent. Derek had to walk with his arm around Stiles' waist, supporting him on their journey back to the river.

Even with their careful trail marking, it was difficult to navigate the exact same path out as they had taken in. Thankfully, Derek continued to prove exceptionally good at remembering directions and keeping his bearings. The carpet of pine needles, stones and rocky earth beneath them left no impression of their feet to indicate directionality, so it was only their scent trail they had to worry about, or at least that's what they were counting on. 

The day was heating up and the cool water of the river was not unwelcome on burning muscles and heat-flushed skin as they slid back into it, even if Stiles was sick of being wet and felt chafed raw by his own sodden clothing. They had successfully laid their trail, but now came the even more difficult part.

They were going to have to lay low and _wait_ for their pursers to catch up and take the false trail.  Only once everyone who had come upriver looking for them had _left_ the banks and gone off into the woods, out of sight of the river, would it be safe for them to slip back downstream towards the station. Otherwise, the risk of being seen was too high. 

They had chosen this part of the river as the place to enact their plan for two reasons.  First, because the banks here were gentle enough in grade that it would make sense to their hunters that they'd thought this a good, far away enough place to finally exit the water. Second, and most importantly, because a little further upstream the river took a bend that created swampy area along the outer curve where the water was shallow, relatively calm, and choked with an obscuring tangle of debris. Along with the natural undergrowth there were fallen trees and large rocks that looked as if they had at some point been brought down in a mud-slide from the steep banks above. It was a good place to hide.

Derek and Stiles pushed their way into the tangle of living greenery and dead branches that was to act as their blind. They dare not leave the water again, but unlike most of the starkly visible river, here the tangled natural cover would shield them from easy sight. From their hiding place they could just see the spot where they'd laid their trail. They would know when it was discovered.

Now, they just had to wait. Wait for the pursuers they'd tried so hard to lose to actually catch up with them. Wait until they were deliberately within the reach of danger in order to have a chance of escaping it. _Just_ wait. Right.  

To be honest, Stiles couldn't bring himself to care very much about those things as he sank down off his feet with a soft groan. He felt like he could happily sit and wait for the end of the world right now, if only he didn't have to take another step. He was so tired he actually felt _dizzy._ He settled into a cross-legged position in the shallow, sun-warmed water. It came up to just below his waist, the tops of his knees rising above it like little islands. The rocky riverbed was muddy here and he felt himself settle into it slightly, but he didn't care. He wasn't _moving_ for the first time in _hours_ and it was _marvelous._

Derek settled beside him, carefully stowing the shotgun in the crook of a dead, side-ways tree branch that would keep it out of the water. Stiles knew Derek had to be exhausted too, but he was clearly good at concealing his feelings and seemed to be animated by a kind of tense, nervous energy that wouldn't let him rest. Stiles could see from the other man's movements that he was uncomfortable with having to wait for their pursuers to come to them and potentially squandering the lead they'd gained. Whatever he may be feeling, however, Derek said nothing and simply stuck with the course of action they'd agreed on earlier.

Stiles liked to believe that was because Derek trusted his plan, although maybe it was at least partially also because the last part of their little trek had made it pretty clear Stiles wasn't going to be able to go any further without a chance to rest and recoup. Honestly, Stiles thought he was doing pretty good, all things considered. He was not a wimp, he told himself, anyone would look a little lacking next to Derek's annoyingly Olympian levels of fitness and stamina. Hey, the guy had been alone with nothing to do for months except probably read, watch baseball and work out, so it made sense.

Stiles glanced thoughtfully at where Derek had stashed the shotgun, his earlier question coming back to him. "We're going to have to swim for it on our way back downstream. Staying in the deeper water and moving with the current will be the quickest and quietest way to go. So ... the gun probably won't be much good after that, huh?" he asked. It was a snag he hadn't considered earlier, although they could still use it as a bluff if they had to, he supposed.

Derek shook his head. "No, actually it should be fine. It's not ideal, of course, but getting wet, even being submerged for a while won't hurt this type of gun as long as we don't try to fire it while the barrel is still full of water.  The ammo should actually be all right too ... " He paused thoughtfully as if considering. "But I've only got two extra cartridges, so I'd rather be safe than sorry."

Derek pulled two red, already wet, spare cartridges out of his back pocket and balanced them carefully next to the rifle. Then he pulled out a small quart-sized Ziploc baggy that contained what looked like a few handfuls of trail mix.

Stiles understood at once that Derek intended to use the watertight bag to store the cartridges as an extra precaution, but raised his eyebrows at the contents of Derek's pockets.

Derek caught the look and returned it dryly. "Hey, you carry condoms, I carry ammo."

"And together we make a smashing team," Stiles said, flashing him a grin. "You're not going to just dump that trail mix, are you?" he added, eyeing the bag as his stomach suddenly started telling him how hungry he was.

Derek popped the bag open and poured the salty mixture of nuts, seeds and dried fruit bits into Stiles' cupped palms. "Why does it seem like I'm always feeding you?" he pondered aloud, lips twitching slightly.

"Because you're an awesome person and I'm a growing boy who needs to eat," Stiles returned with a grin, forcing himself to eat a couple nuts at a time and to not scarf the whole lot in one go.

Derek chose not to comment.  He carefully cleaned out the inside of the bag, then placed the cartridges inside and sealed it up, making them extra water tight. When he looked up again, Stiles was holding half the trail mix out towards him on an open palm.  Derek looked puzzled and shook his head.  "I gave it to you."

Stiles smiled crookedly, gnawing on a raisin. "Yeah, and that's sweet, but you gotta keep your strength up too, big guy. We've got a lot of ground to cover yet. Come on _\- yum, yum, in the tum_ ," he said, repeating the old childhood rhyme in a sing-song tone.

A small, real smile flittered across Derek's face for the first time since this ordeal began. "You're crazy," he murmured, but his tone was fond as he took the offered food, such as it was.

They made it last as long as possible, but that wasn't very long. When it was gone, Stiles licked every last bit of salt off his palms, stomach rumbling. He was still ravenous but there wasn't anything he could do about that right now. 

"Thanks and all, but if this is your idea of a _morning after_ breakfast, we really need to work on your game," he teased Derek.

"Sorry, I'll just go whip up an omelet, shall I?" Derek retorted dryly.

Stiles sighed ruefully. "Probably not a good idea. Even if we could find wild eggs out here somewhere, can't really afford a fire," he said with faux pragmatism. "But _next_ time, dude, _next_ time you are totally making me breakfast, with, like, _all_ the trimmings."

Derek looked at Stiles a little strangely, perhaps not having expected Stiles to be talking like there might actually be a _next time_ at this point.  He said nothing, however, and they lapsed into silence.  

Stiles shifted, trying not to feel the heaviness of his eyelids or the gnawing in his stomach as they waited ... and got chewed by mosquitoes and probably ticks, leaches, and every other _awful_ thing that reminded Stiles why he hated the outdoors and it should never have been invented.

Rubbing his arms against the either real or imagined sensation of being bitten and sampled as if he were an insect buffet, he turned to Derek for distraction. There was still no hint of their pursuers but he kept his voice low anyway, letting the sound of the river and the loud droning of insects cover their voices from all but one another.

"Derek ... is it okay if I call you Derek, now?" he interrupted himself as the thought came to him. "I mean, I kinda assume secrecy is out the window now that we're being pursued through the wilderness by your evil nemeses?"

Derek eyed him. He didn't say anything, but gave a slow nod.

"Okay, great, Derek." Stiles nodded. "So, what's your last name, Derek? Looks like we've got some time here ... maybe you could elaborate a little on this _'criminal organization'_ we're running from?  I've got a right to know what I might get killed over," he pushed a little harder when Derek looked hesitant. "Not that, you know, anyone is _going_ to get killed, because we totally aren't," he added firmly.

Derek ran his hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. Stiles got the impression that it wasn't that Derek didn't _want_ to tell him, so much as that this was a secret he'd gotten too used to keeping. He'd spent so much time burying and protecting these truths that it was hard to say aloud the words he'd trained himself never to speak.  

"Hale," Derek finally said softly. His voice was so quiet Stiles had to strain to hear him above the ambient sounds of nature about them.  "My name's Derek Hale. My parents were Talia and William Hale. My sisters were Laura and Cora Hale." He spoke the names with a certain reverence, as if he _needed_ to say them, these names held so long only in his heart. As if it was something of a relief to bear witness to their lives and their memories aloud, to share them with at least one other human soul. To make sure they were never completely forgotten.

Stiles understood that feeling. He listened silently.

"I was around seven or eight when it all started. My parents were partners in their own little law firm. It was nothing big or fancy, but then Craylon happened.  Craylon was this big, local manufacturing company that had apparently been cutting corners for years and exposing their workers to some harmful chemicals as a result.  I'm not really sure how my parents got involved, but somehow they ended up representing the workers, pro-bono. Most people considered it a hopeless, career-ending case and the company threw the big guns at them, of course. There was a lot of ugly stuff I only kind of remember," Derek continued. His fingers plucked at a leaf stuck to his jeans, but his gaze was distant.

"There was a lot of politics and graft involved, I think. Craylon had the governor and several other important figures in their pocket.  There was one city councilman on our side, though. He became my parents' strongest ally and helped them eventually expose not only Craylon, but also the politicians who were getting kickbacks from them. They won the case and the resulting public acclaim ended up taking all of them to new heights.  My parents' firm started getting major league clients and their good friend the city councilman became the next governor. 

"For a few years, things were good. My little sister Cora was born, we moved into a bigger house, I joined little league... You don't stop to think at that age, whether you're happy or not, but looking back, I think we were."  Derek shrugged, recounting these things as one might a fairytale or a distant memory that could no longer be connected with reality.  "Then everything changed. When I was around ten, my mother was on the board of this national non-profit organization called _Dream Big._ They gave grants to struggling K - 12 schools in low income areas and things like that, or at least that's _allegedly_ what they did.

"My parents were all about the need for people in positions of power to behave ethically and responsibly, so when my mother noticed discrepancies in some of Dream Big's records and bookkeeping, she wasn't content to let it slide as a simple accounting error. She had to check it out. To dig deeper. In the end, it turned out that Dream Big was actually a giant, money laundering operation that did barely a fraction of what it claimed. It was one of many fronts being used by an extremist organization that called itself _ALPHA_ ," Derek hooked air quotes around the name with his tone.

Stiles drew in a startled breath. "Whoa, wait," he interrupted. "You mean ALPHA, as in that cultish eco-terrorist group with unusually low morals and an unusually high body count that blew up that deep sea oil drilling station and a bunch of other shit, then gave themselves a black eye by using drug and arms deals to finance their allegedly principle based operations? The _Accensa populus libertatem in ... an... hoc ..._ uh ... stuff I don't remember but basically _we really wanted the initials of our motto to spell something,_ people run by that creepy guy _"Big Duke"_ Deucalion? _That_ ALPHA?"

Derek's raised an eyebrow. "Yes, that's them. They were active for a long time previously outside the states, but the oil rig disaster was what got them national attention. It turned out to be the opening salvo of all their state-side attacks. They were a pretty big deal at the time, although they've been off the radar for at least ten years now," he added, frowning slightly as he studied Stiles, who seemed to know an awful lot about it for someone who could not have been more than a child the last time anyone mentioned that name.

Stiles simply nodded. "Wow, yeah, haven't thought about that in _ages_. They were all over the news for like, two summers when I was growing up. My best friend's dad did some kind of analysis or something about it. His folks were already separated, but for some reason his dad needed stuff from my dad so he was like, in and out for a while. I remember Dad followed the news pretty closely and that was actually great because it was a little after Mom died and he really needed to take interest in something. Like, _really_. Scott and I had this whole casebook of clippings we kept about it ... or, well, I did, anyway. It wasn't that long after 9/11 so the word _terrorist_ was kind of like _boogeyman,_ you know?" Stiles shook his head momentarily lost in the unexpected swarm of memories he'd not touched in quite a long time.

"I had this crazy theory I was trying to prove, that they weren't really the _blow random shit up for a cause_ kind of terrorists and there was a pattern in the destruction," he admitted with a rueful, self-deprecating smile. "Scott and I used to play all the time like we were some kind of modern day Untouchables, getting chased and hunting down the bad guys..." Stiles stopped rambling abruptly, blanching as he realized how his whimsical memories might seem to someone who had lived the very harsh reality of a situation that had all been fun and games to him.

"Um, sorry, I didn't mean ... I mean, obviously it was a lot more than a game for you and I didn't ... I talk too much," he apologized with a sigh.

Derek's gaze had shifted off to the distance, but he appeared more lost in his own memories than offended.  He shook his head and shrugged. "It's all right, it's true; it was a big deal and it all seemed kind of thrilling at first. I was..." he paused as if struggling with the words, a bitter tone in his voice. "I was _proud_ and _excited_ that my parents were involved in prosecuting those people, like it was all some kind of big adventure.  Laura was a little older than me. I think she knew better."

Something dark flittered behind Derek's eyes, a mixture of pain and regret that made him look so sad it made Stiles' chest ache.  Impulsively, Stiles leaned over and hugged him. 

Derek stiffened. He didn't reciprocate, but he didn't pull away either. Stiles released him and settled back before it had a chance to get awkward.

"Well, they did do a lot of good, right?  I mean, ALPHA was basically destroyed by the ensuing investigation," he said quietly, knowing that didn't replace what Derek had lost, but wanting to try to find something encouraging about it all.

"Sure," Derek murmured, voice still bitter and eyes dark.  "The Feds got Deucalion and dismantled ALPHA, and my parents were part of that ... but that wasn't the full story. That was the part the news knew about. That was the part that _worked._ " His gaze shifted back to Stiles, piercing in its intensity.

"The rest of it was one giant clusterfuck.  See, the thing is, you were right, Stiles.  The attacks that made them infamous, they _weren't_ random.  They weren't all Deucalion's work _,_ either. The core of ALPHA _was_ kind of a cult, with Deucalion at the head, but he wasn't in it alone. He had a silent partner, and that partner used and betrayed him.  Don't get me wrong, Big Duke was bad news. He became a real fanatic after the industrial incident that took his eyesight and he got a lot of people killed pursuing his twisted idea of the perfect world, but he was on some level a man with a cause, or at least an obsession. The drugs and the arms dealing, that wasn't him. 

"Like most groups of their ilk, ALPHA was made up of multiple splinter cells carrying out their missions independently. The idea was to make it harder to take down the whole if one branch was caught, but that also made it easy to subvert the organization from the inside.  Duke didn't learn just _how_ subverted portions of his organization had become, or how much his choice of targets had been manipulated for purposes other than his own, until it was too late.  Over time, ALPHA itself had become little more than a front, a tool disguised as a terrorist threat, a weapon of greed disguised under ideology. It was hard to trace or prove because it was so well hidden, but many of their targets were such that they did a lot more than further some out-there planet protecting agenda.  The impact they had and the timing of them manipulated the stock market, plunged certain companies into bankruptcy, elevated others to soaring new heights and significantly contributed to making or breaking many political careers."

Stiles didn't even register the mosquitoes snacking on his neck and arms anymore as he stared at Derek with rapt attention, his interest deeply captured by these revelations. "Oh my God, I knew there was something off about it all!" he said excitedly, unable to help himself. "I _knew_ it!"

"You weren't the only one who thought so," Derek said wryly. "The Feds my parents were working with suspected the same thing, but they couldn't prove it. That's what they needed my parents for. Because, you see, it wasn't an _accident_ that my mother found those records that started the unraveling of Deucalion's whole power structure. Big Duke had run his course of usefulness to his silent partner and his deepening, unpredictable fanaticism was now becoming more of a liability than an asset.  It was time for him to go.

"This man, this _silent partner_... he knew my mother. He got her onto the board of Dream Big in the first place. He _knew_ she'd notice the problems and dig until it all came out. What he _didn't_ count on was how smart she was. He didn't count on her and my father unraveling the threads so far that they came all the way back to _him_.  Maybe he thought they'd never suspect him; he was their _friend_ after all.  He was the only one who had stood by them against Craylon, who seemed to share their goals and ideals and remained deeply involved with them ever since.  They shared holidays and social events. Their children _knew_ each other."  Derek's voice was black with hatred.

Stiles' eyes were wide, his mind quickly slotting the pieces together as they were revealed. "No way, the fucker! He was that city councilman guy?!  That totally makes sense. You said he became governor after that, right? _Dude_ , he totally used that case to kick start his career. Probably manipulated the whole thing like he manipulated Deucalion and Palpatine-ed the shit out of everybody."

Whether or not Derek got Stiles' Star Wars reference, he seemed understand the gist just fine. He nodded grimly. "Exactly. He was running for Senate by this time and he thought to use my parents to take care of the loose cannon Deucalion had become with the added bonus of making Big Duke useful one more time in the process. Being involved in taking down such a newsworthy bunch of "terrorists" gave another huge jolt to his career _and_ it gave him an opportunity to get rid of my parents.

"From what I gather, they had apparently started to become an annoyingly over-observant hindrance to him. The Feds were keeping my mother's involvement under wraps when Deucalion was arrested, but ALPHA came after us anyway and I have no doubt that he is the one who leaked our identities to them. Deucalion probably thought his supposed _ally_ was still trying to help him out as much as he could without blowing his own cover. I don't know why Duke never turned on him once he was in custody, so I can only assume the bastard continued his charade all the way along, even as he played both ends against the middle, hoping they would eliminate one another. Getting my parents killed or shuttled off into witness protection suited him just fine. 

"My parents figured it out though. They saw through him to what he really was. They started working with the feds to get the proof needed to take him down." Derek sighed, his eyes having gone distant again, and strangely weary.

"It took a long time. We went into witness protection when I was around 11. It was only supposed to be short term, a precaution against the attempts made by ALPHA until the trial was over and the dust had settled. But the case just dragged on and on. Witnesses disappeared, evidence was _mishandled_ , it was a mess. All the while, my parents were secretly working with the couple of agents who were trying to form a case against someone who was, by now, a US Senator and a dangerously influential man. We had to be moved often. Twice, maybe even three times a year it was a new town, a new name, a new history to try to remember. My parents finally got what they were after, but the Senator caught on to what they were doing. 

"That very night, Deucalion _commits suicide_ in his cell and the lead agent working with my parents dies in a _car accident_. The resulting fire conveniently destroys the recordings he was carrying, the evidence my parents had worked so hard to get. We would have been crossed off the same night, but my dad was on the phone with the agent when he was run off the road.  My parents didn't take any chances. We ran and just missed the assassins who would no doubt have been thought of merely as an ALPHA hit squad coming after us in retribution for Big Duke's death.

"The next day a crap ton of new evidence _conveniently_ came to light that made the rest of the case against the different remaining ALPHA members being prosecuted a slam dunk. No reason to stall anymore now that Duke was gone, along with whatever truths he knew.  The case wrapped up, ALPHA allegedly fell apart and the news and everyone else moved on to other matters. Open and shut. No reason to look further.  A small team of Feds stayed quietly involved with my parents, but other than their statements as witnesses there was no proof of anything and the powers that be seemed increasingly of the opinion that this whole operation had been nothing but a wild goose chase by a couple of misguided civilians and one overzealous and now dead agent.  The investigation wasn't dropped, but it was no longer a high profile, high priority case.

"The cycle of witness protection and endless moves continued as they tried again to make their case against the Senator, but something always kept going wrong. He was too well connected, too well protected.  Only Deucalion's radical faction of ALPHA had truly been dismantled. The rest of the underground organization merely changed shape and form, serving whatever new purposes he needed them to serve. It seemed like there was no corner he couldn't reach, no person he couldn't bribe, blackmail or kill as needed to protect himself."  Derek's voice had gone flat and emotionless as he related the story, as if he were sliding into some kind of fugue.

"One by one, the agents involved in the case managed to die, were reassigned or became visibly, increasingly disinclined to take action. When I was 15, our house burned down. I wasn't there. I'd snuck out that night." He snorted softly. "This girl, Paige, had invited me to a concert. I didn't even care about the music, but someone had _included_ me, you know? I wanted to go, but my parents were all edgy because of some vaguely unsettling thing that had happened earlier and so they said no, we needed to stick together, just in case. I thought it was just an excuse and I knew so much better. They were _always_ jumping at shadows and it was ruining my life," he said with a bitingly self-derogatory tone.

"I was angry by then, unhappy with the life we had and I blamed them for it. So I snuck out and went anyway. Laura realized what I'd done and came looking for me. She wanted to bring me back before our parents realized I was gone, I think, but it took her a while to find me.  When she eventually did, she pretty much dragged me back home, but by the time we got there, we didn't have a home anymore. It was already burning.  To this day, I don't know what happened.  I don't know if they died because they were distracted trying to figure out what happened to Laura and me, because they couldn't find us when they needed to run. I don't know if us being there might have made any difference or if we'd just be dead too. I just know I came back to the sound of my baby sister screaming, and I couldn't get to her. I tried. The flames were too thick. The firemen showed up and pulled me out. They tried, but it was too late for them to do anything, the house was already coming down.  Cora was only six ... " He shook his head, the emotionless tone he'd been using cracking painfully around the edges. His palms balled into fists in his lap, knuckles white and nails digging into his palms. His breath was starting to come quick and fast.

Stiles bit his lower lip, gut twisting in sympathy.  He wanted to say something, but for once nothing came to mind.  Instead he just reached over and took one of Derek's hands in his own, fingers curling gently around the clenched fist. He could only imagine how badly these memories had to hurt. He knew what it was to lose someone you loved and to feel like you had failed them when they needed you. That you just hadn't been in the right place at the right time and hadn't been able to save them from the monsters. The monsters that took Derek's family had been real. The monsters that took his mother had been in her head, but the pain of the loss was something to which he could relate.  

Derek tensed and glanced up at Stiles quickly, as if only now remembering that the other man was there and that he wasn't walking down this well trodden road of memory and regret alone. His fist released uncertainly and Stiles gently entwined their fingers before Derek could pull away.

Their gazes locked and Derek stared at him for several long moments without speaking. Stiles couldn't begin to guess what was going through the other man's mind. Maybe it was stupid, given the fact that Derek was clearly much more physically capable than he was, but the older man's eyes seemed so vulnerable and full of pain, Stiles felt an unexpectedly fierce and urgent desire to protect him.

Derek's breathing had evened back out.  He shuddered slightly as he drew in a long, deliberate breath, seeming to shake off whatever had momentarily taken hold of him.

"The blame landed on some former ALPHA nut who was shot while attempting to escape arrest. The few agents who had still been working on the case against the Senator with our parents moved on.  It was just Laura and I after that.  Laura was legal by then, so she could be my guardian. The Marshals moved us to a new location, gave us new identities one more time and then pretty much forgot about us.  Even if anyone questioned who was really responsible for the fire, the fact was our parents had been the threat and whatever case might have been had died with them. No one expected anyone to keep coming after us. No one except Laura. Growing up like we had ... we couldn't relax.  _She_ , couldn't relax.  Laura had already graduated and I refused to go back to school.  After a few failed attempts to make me, she gave up and we just ... drifted, together. We weren't exactly running, but it felt like it. We knew we weren't safe, no matter what WP seemed to think. Then I ... there was ..." Derek trailed off, seeming curiously unwilling to continue, given how freely he'd related everything else thus far.  He looked away, his fingers unconsciously tightening around Stiles'.

"Two years after the fire, they hunted us down again. I guess it didn't matter to them, that we couldn't testify. Just the fact that we _knew_ was too much of a liability.  Laura was killed, and I barely escaped. I didn't even bother attempting to get in touch with the Marshals or Feds again after that.  I've been on my own since then," he finished up, clearly summarizing his way past a part of the story he did not wish to dig into too deeply.

Stiles knew something of the final picture had been left out of the account, but Derek had just bared a huge portion of his soul to him and he was not about to press for more if the other man was unwilling. It was quite enough to take in as it was.

"How long ago was that?" Stiles asked instead, giving Derek something else, something safer to talk about. So many things made more sense to him now.  He understood Derek's paranoia and reserve, his inexperience and awkwardness around people. The man had spent his whole life running, of course he saw potential danger in every shadow and hadn't had time to form normal human relationships and attachments. The thought made Stiles ache down to his bones. This was all so wrong. This didn't happen to real life people... and yet, apparently, it did.

"Four years," Derek said with a shrug. His expression had smoothed out to carefully neutral again. His thumb played absently against the curve of Stiles' knuckles. "They almost got me once, a few months after Laura, but since then I've learned to keep a low profile. I move around, pass as an illegal, work under the table jobs in the most out of the way places I can find... it seemed to be working, until now.  I _still_ can't figure out how they found me.  I mean, why _now_ after more than three years _?_   The only thing truly out of the ordinary that's happened is ... " he looked up at Stiles and then stopped, shaking his head and looking back out across the water as if forcing himself not to go there.  He squeezed Stiles' hand once and then released it.

Stiles drew his arm back slowly, letting it rest back in his lap as he considered what Derek had just said.  "Is _me_ , huh?" he said quietly, forcing a lightness he didn't entirely feel.  "Derek, I swear, I don't know how I could possibly have led them to you when I had no clue about any of this," he promised, the levity in his tone only just covering a thread of anxiousness underneath. Lately, he had a bad track record of being believed or having his word mean anything. 

"Besides, like ... I've been with you for days now, and we've both been totally cut off from the outside world, so ... yeah." He shrugged, trying to move on quickly past the idea. His head hurt and his eyes felt scratchy. He was beyond exhausted, but trying hard to ignore his body's clamoring protests for rest. "Wouldn't it make more sense for it to have something to do with those kids that messed up the station or maybe those police officers who came to take the report?"

Derek frowned. "I thought about that," he admitted. "Those officers know old man Winnemucca, the station owner. They've been around the station before, during the busy season, and I've seen them around town. They've never known me as anything but Miguel and never showed any interest. I don't know why that would have suddenly changed, now. Plus, if they were after the bounty, why not just jam me up over my supposed illegal status and take me in when they were out here the other day? There was nothing to stop them. As for those kids..." he shook his head. "It's not the first time something like that has happened.  It was dark and they didn't get any kind of good look at me. I just don't see how any of them could have made the connection or even that there was a connection to make. Even as some kind of ruse to try and get a look at me, it doesn't make sense, because they _didn't_ get a look at me. It would make much more sense to come in posing as a customer or a lost tourist or something ..." Derek stopped abruptly as if belatedly realizing where he'd accidentally circled himself back around to.  

Stiles just grinned ruefully. "Yeah, I get it. Can't really blame you for being suspicious of everybody at this point.  So, I guess this is why you _really_ go prowling around at night with a shotgun, huh?" He asked, stifling a yawn. "And why you gave me the riot act when I accidentally found your stuff."  Only now, did Stiles realize just how damning Derek's little box of keepsakes and family mementos would be to anyone trying to ascertain whether the well-built, angular featured young man was in fact the floppy haired teen and soft featured child of years past.

Derek nodded and rubbed the back of his neck, giving Stiles a slightly sheepish look. "Yeah ... sorry about that. Your appearance was already kind of suspicious. When I found you like that, I thought you might be a bounty hunter or something, looking for proof of who I was. That's what happened the last time I was nearly caught."

Stiles grinned around another yawn. "Yeah, because you've got a _bounty on your head_ ," he said the words as if he'd always wanted to try them out in a real life situation.  "That's actually kind of cool in a weird way. I've never known anyone with honest-to-God bounty hunters after them," he remarked, rubbing his eyes and face vigorously an effort to shake off the sensation of sleepiness that he had no time or desire to entertain just yet.

Derek squinted at him, possibly still attempting to acclimate himself to Stiles' occasional habit of saying whatever inappropriate thing he happened to be thinking. "Yeah, well. It's not that exciting, take it from me. It basically just means you can never really trust anybody, because even if they didn't start out intending to sell you out, they might decide to later. That's how I learned about the bounty in the first place. I met this other guy at a hostel and we ended up hitchhiking through most of Iowa together. He seemed harmless. Smoked a lot of pot, always had his nose in his phone, obsessed with low sense "quick" money making schemes, but we got along.  Only at some point he comes across something online about the bounty, I guess, and I'd been too free with certain things, so he put two and two together and decided to try to cache in."

Stiles made a disgusted sound but Derek just shrugged. "It was my own fault, I got too comfortable. You think I would have learned not to trust people long before that, considering it's how I got my sister killed," he added acerbically, then abruptly looked away as if having said more than he intended.

Stiles' fingers played against the soggy seam running down the side of his jeans. Derek's history seemed comprised of a churning sea of nothing but betrayal, pain and self recrimination that he wasn't sure how to navigate.  His mind was regrettably slow and fogged by exhaustion and he felt like he just wasn't up to this task as well as he should have been. "So ... what convinced you that I wasn't a bad guy and you shouldn't just let me die in the desert?" he asked by way of attempting to diffuse the sudden tension in the air. "Because, um, for the record I'm really glad you didn't," he added with a weary, but impish grin.

Derek didn't seem to have the heart to smile back, but his lips twitched a little.  "I scouted the area.  I followed you.  I watched you.  No one came for you when you were in trouble, and you didn't get in touch with anyone."

"So nearly dying of sunstroke meant I was innocent, I _see_ ," Stiles teased. 

"Well, or at least that you weren't working with anyone in the immediate area," Derek allowed.

"Oh, _thanks._ Thanks so much for the vote of confidence." Stiles rolled his eyes, although he supposed if he were in Derek's shoes he'd be just as paranoid. "If that's how you felt why'd you come for me at all?"

Derek shrugged, studying his hands in his lap. "Honestly, I almost didn't," he admitted. His voice was quiet, but it wasn't an apology.  He looked up at Stiles, holding him with those intense green eyes as if he needed Stiles to know this, needed him to understand the kind of person Derek felt he was.  "If you had been one of them, I would have let you die. But I couldn't be sure. I suppose it would have been safer to err on the side of caution, but ..." Derek shifted, looking anywhere but at Stiles.  "I knew you wouldn't make it and I couldn't take the chance that you _might_ be innocent," he admitted.

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, raising his eyebrows and grinning at the somber words. "Wow, okay, so, _really_ glad you went with your gut and not your head on that one, then."

"So am I," Derek murmured, almost too quietly to hear. Stiles _did_ hear it, however, and his grin widened.

"So... those people back at the station, Kate and Yates and their goons, they're, what, rival bounty hunters or something, you think?" he asked, shifting his focus back to the present and wondering if there was any way to use the bad blood between their pursuers to their advantage.  He cupped some water in his hands and splashed it on his face.  His eyelids felt too heavy and it was damn distracting.  He alternately tensed and relaxed his muscles, struggling to stay awake.

Derek shook his head, then paused thoughtfully. "Well, I'm not sure, entirely.  I have no idea who Yates is, from what we heard bounty hunter is a real possibility for him. Kate's in this for a different reason, though. She happens to be the good Senator's loving daughter," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.  "The fact that she's out here personally is a bad sign about how seriously they want me.  I can't imagine she'd be getting her hands dirty otherwise." His eyes and tone darkened. "Although, I suppose I don't really know. Last time I saw her, she was putting an arrow through my sister's heart like she was nothing but an animal to be hunted down. So maybe she likes the hands-on approach. Maybe she's acquired a taste for blood and it's her thing. Who can tell?"

"Oh, so, like, the whole family is just a bunch of lovely psycho killers then? How convenient, must make the holidays a total blast. What do they do, sit around and give each other severed fingers and horse heads for kicks?" Stiles said disgustedly, feeling sickened all over again and channeling that into sarcasm as the only outlet he had.  "Wow, just ... wow. I mean, you really weren't kidding when you said this was complicated," Stiles observed, thinking this may be the first time someone's _long story_ had actually _been_ a long story and not just one they hadn't wanted to talk about.  He was almost reeling from the information dump.

He frowned thoughtfully, feeling like his head was full of stupid, sleepy cotton and wishing he had a clearer mind for this. "Okay, so... I get that you can't testify to any of the stuff your parents knew and you just found out about second hand, 'cuz, like, hearsay and all that, but if you _saw_ this woman kill your sister ... can't you do anything with that?"

Derek snorted like it was a stupid question, which maybe it would have been if Stiles had been more awake.  "You're kidding me, right? I would barely survive long enough to press charges, much less testify if I surfaced, and let's just say I did, that I was willing to risk it, because I _would_ if I thought it would do any good.  So let's say I do... where's my proof?  I don't know what they did with Laura's body. All I can say is what I saw. Kate's father could probably buy her _ten_ iron clad alibis. Gerard is a fucking US Senator and Kate's a respected private security contractor with security clearance whose teams have been employed to run overseas ops by the fucking _government_. Who am I?  I'm almost literally nobody.  I have no work history, no driver's license, social security card, birth certificate... I haven't paid taxes in my entire life and haven't had a scrap of anything legal under my real name since I was eleven years old. I can't even prove I'm _me_ if they wanted to contest it.  You tell me, who is going to be believed?"

Stiles grimaced, because unfortunately Derek was completely right. He knew all about the injustice of supposedly just systems when someone else seemed more worthy than you did. It wasn't even a risk worth taking. It was difficult to believe the utter lack of viable options. He felt sure he had to be overlooking something, but it was so hard to think when all he really wanted to do was sleep for a year.  

He rubbed his scratchy eyes for what felt like the hundredth time, blinking slowly. Everything was starting to catch up with him and while the sheer interest of Derek's story and leftover adrenaline had kept his exhaustion at bay for a time, his worn out body was starting to give out on him against his will. He was in pain, he'd been riding a highly stressful emotional rollercoaster, he'd been exerting himself strenuously for hours and had not had more than a few hours sleep the night before.  Stiles felt like he was going to pass out where he sat. He could face-plant in the water and drown and he wouldn't even care. 

Something was tickling at the back of his mind, like maybe the combination of _Gerard_ and _Senator_ and _Kate_ and _private security_ should mean something to him, but he was too leaden with exhaustion to solve any more puzzles right now, his mind too close to shutting down for the niggling spark to ignite or gain any traction.

"Holy crap, dude, we are so screwed," he mumbled, scrubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes vigorously and trying in vain to clear the encroaching cobwebs out of his head.  "This is all so screwed up."

"You're telling me," Derek said bitterly.  "But look, they don't know who you are," he tried to encourage, perhaps taking Stiles' frustrated exhaustion for something else that it wasn't. "If the plan works, we'll get out of this without them ever seeing or identifying you. Soon as we're out of here, you can split and you'll be okay," he promised earnestly.

Stiles made a confused and consternated face, blinking owlishly at Derek as if he'd said something  either stupid or insulting. " _Dude_ , I'm not just going to cut and run and leave you with these goons on your tail. This isn't right, it sucks, we have to figure out how to fix this."

Derek shook his head incredulously. "There _is_ no _fixing_ this, Stiles. There's not even any decent revenge to be had. I tried that. I watched them for a while; I thought about all the different possible ways I could kill them ... you don't want to _know_ how much time I spent thinking about it. But it's no good. They're well aware of all the enemies they have and are too well protected for even a suicide attack. I'm not afraid to die, but I want it to count. I refuse to give them the last of our blood for nothing. I'll live just to spite them if that's the only thing I can do. So I'll keep going; keep hiding and making them chase me for as long as I can, but you don't want to be any part of this, trust me, Stiles.  The only sane thing you can do is to run away from me as far and as fast as you can, first chance you get and pretend we never met."

"Mm," Stiles murmured thoughtfully, as if considering the advice. "Nope, too late for that," he concluded. "I don't do no-win scenarios. When the rules suck this much, we need new rules.  We'll find a way to cheat the kobayashi maru, I just gotta think... but I'm kind of tired. Like, _really_ tired... need to sleep a little first. Then think. Plan... stuff..." Stiles' words slurred and jumbled somewhat incoherently as sleep reached for him. His head nodded and jerked spasmodically as he fought the failing battle against his fatigue.  He was literally falling asleep sitting up, his body twitching and slumping in turns. 

Derek shifted around in the shallow water, maneuvering until he was behind Stiles. He wrapped his arms around the teen's waist, pulling Stiles' back against his chest and allowing the boy's weight to settle into him.  Stiles' head lolled back to rest on his shoulder, as if too heavy to support its own weight a moment longer than necessary.

"Mm gd this ss nice..." Stiles mumbled contentedly, his eyes already shut and his body gratefully relaxing.  "So comfy. Comfy Derek pillow. Mmm ... gonna keep you..."

The boy seemed hardly aware of what he was saying anymore and Derek tried not to pay attention to the words as he settled Stiles' slackening body more securely against him, supporting Stiles so he could sleep without fear of slipping into the water.  Stiles murmured a few more things didn't even sound like words any longer, but the sounds quickly trailed off into a soft, even snoring.

Derek was tired too, but there was no possible way he could sleep, not now, not when he knew Kate was here. Not when those fucking bastards were at this moment closing in on their position.  No, he was too keyed up to allow himself rest. Besides, one of them had to stay awake or they risked losing everything, and clearly that could not be Stiles. The young man was completely spent, which was in no small part Derek's fault.

Derek blinked weary eyes. Stiles' body was warm against his chest, his head a pleasant weight upon his shoulder. He'd not told anyone his story before, not all together like this. If he were honest, he probably hadn't even strung that many words together all at one time in _years_. It was a strange sensation. He wasn't used to talking to anyone so much and his throat ached for many reasons. The telling left him feeling emotionally drained, as if he'd wrung some part of himself out like a used sponge. Yet, much like a sponge drained of dirty dish water, it also left him just a little bit lighter. He couldn't really understand the contradiction, but then, there was a lot about being around Stiles that he didn't understand.

He had been alone for so long. It was weird and strangely nice to have someone beside him like this, even if it was also terrifying. Last time he ran with someone he was running with Laura, and in the end he'd watched her die. Derek didn't think he could watch any more people die.

With any luck, he wouldn't have to. Stiles was clearly not thinking straight right now. It was crazy for him to act like he was going to try and stick this out. He had no reason to get involved and every reason in the world to not. He'd think better of it when he wasn't so worn out. When it came down to it and the shit hit the fan, he'd do the sensible thing and split, Derek was sure.

That would be for the best. It was the only way to save his life. Derek tried to comfort himself with that truth, even as the pain of a loss which he had no right to feel cut its way slowly through his insides.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooof... so much explanation to try to get out in this chapter. I'm exhausted. Next chapter we'll get back to the action... and angst. Sooooo much impending angst... :)


	11. Chapter 11

Stiles swatted sluggishly at the arms insistently shaking him. He would have mumbled a protest, but a large hand was clamped over his mouth, discouraging that idea.  It was a testament to how very tired he was that the human gag didn't even alarm him. He just wanted the shaking to stop so he could rollover and go back to sleep.

"Stiles," the whispered word in his ear was soft, but urgent.

_Miguel ..._ Stiles' sluggish mind supplied. _Miguel wanted something.  Couldn't he wait a few more minutes? Just a little longer ..._

A sharp pinch made him start. It came again a second later, strong fingers pinching the skin on his forearm sharply. He tried to flail away, but strong arms held him tight to the body behind him.

_Ow!  What the hell?!  Miguel was pinching him, the jerk!  No ... wait, not Miguel. Derek. Derek was pinching him..._

Stiles eyes flew open as that one thought kicked off a flood of others, his mind finally surfacing up from slumber enough to remember where he was and what was happening. Forcing heavy, sleep fogged eyes open, Stiles blinked at the brightness around him, trying to make sense of the blur of colors and shapes. It took a few long moments for his sluggish brain to process the optical input.

He was still sitting in the water with Derek, resting against the other man's body.  Derek was holding him tightly, one hand around his chest, one over his mouth, undoubtedly so he wouldn't make any accidental sounds upon waking. Even sleepy as he was, Stiles couldn't help thinking Derek felt very _nice_ against his back. 

"Stiles, they're here," Derek's barely there whisper brushed against his ear again, the prickle of the other man's stubble scraping the side of his jaw and neck.

_That_ sent a zing of adrenaline through Stiles' body that helped him shake off the lingering lethargy of his recent slumber and drew him more fully alert. Drawing in deep breaths to clear his head, Stiles sat a little straighter. He tried to twist his mouth free but Derek was still holding him too tightly, perhaps not yet sure whether he was awake enough to be aware of their situation.

Stiles lightly bit the inside of Derek's palm. Not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to tell him to back off without having to make a sound.

Derek did, quickly, shaking his hand more out of surprise than pain.  "You bit me!" he hissed, voice still as low as the hum of a dragon fly's wings. 

Stiles twisted to regard him with a flat look. "Only because you've apparently got a _thing_ for gagging me. Which, under the right circumstances, is actually pretty hot for some reason," he added parenthetically, his voice also a bare whisper. "But let's try to keep it to the bedroom, okay?"

Derek blinked, looking at him like the unexpected shift in topics had left him completely unable to compute.  He licked his lips and then gave his head a little shake, like maybe his mind had just gone somewhere _very_ unhelpful. "They're _here_ ," he repeated with a frown, enunciating very carefully, like maybe Stiles hadn't heard or had forgotten the part where they were currently in mortal danger.

Twisting back around to peer out through the thick, leafy tangle behind which they hid, Stiles strained to see the opposite bank. He could just make out the dark shape of a figure moving through the trees higher up the hill before it disappeared from sight, following the trail they had set.  From somewhere nearby, the purposeful howl of a hunting dog following a trail sent a shiver up his spine. 

Stiles swallowed, heart speeding up a bit as he looked back over his shoulder towards Derek. "How many of them?  Did they all take the trail?" He felt suddenly frustrated with himself that he hadn't roused sooner and had missed so much. They had to be sure that everyone nearby was well into the woods before they could make a move.

"Three men, one woman, two dogs," Derek whispered back, pressing a little closer against Stiles' back as he leaned forward to peer around him.  "They were split into two one dog, two person teams, shadowing each other on either side of the river. The team on this side forded across to join up with the one on that side once they picked up the trail. They all took the bait."

Stiles nodded, glad Derek had been paying attention.  "Kate was with them?" he asked, feeling worried.  He wasn't sure how well their ruse would hold up to someone who knew enough about tracking to have been able to estimate their gender and relative heights from a few footprints. If they figured out the deception too quickly, he and Derek were sunk.

Derek shook his head, his mouth forming a tight, grim line at the mention of the woman's name. "No, some other woman.  I didn't recognize her.  Yates is with them, though and I _think_ one of the other men might have been one of his people from the station." Derek sounded highly uncertain of this, which was no surprise, given the distance and the darkness through which they had observed those proceedings.  Yates was probably wearing that cowboy hat still, which made him at least a little distinctive.

"Mm," Stiles nodded, turning this information over in his head while feeling a trifle relieved.  "Good. That's good. They probably split up into four groups, two going down river and two going up. Yates got the short stick, Kate expected us to go with the current. I'm guessing more of her people showed up, maybe with the dogs or something," he surmised, following his stream of consciousness aloud, but keeping his voice low.  "Given how tense things were back at the station, it wouldn't surprise me if they tried to load the search teams up with even numbers of Kate and Yates' people, if possible. It felt like there wasn't a lot of trust going on there." 

He shifted in the water, trying to ease out the stiffness in his joints and wincing at the sudden rush of pins and needles in his very flat feeling butt.  He carefully moved to his knees, trying to disturb the water as little as possible. The sound of the dog was getting farther away, but he wasn't taking any unnecessary chances.

"With any luck, Yates won't want to let them call the other group from downstream right away," he continued, rubbing wet hands down his face. He was becoming painfully aware of his waterlogged legs and feet. His toes must be positive prunes by now, and they ached inside his drenched socks and sneakers.  "He'll want to try to get us himself first.  Even if Kate's people insist on calling her..." Stiles squinted up at the sky, trying and failing to judge what time it was by the position of the sun.  "By now, they gotta be so far downstream that it will take them hours to get up here."

"We'll have to make it back to the station before they are able to backtrack that far, otherwise they'll see us from the banks and shoot us like fish in a barrel," Derek pointed out grimly.

Stiles gave his arm a pat. "That's the spirit, Derek. I can always count on you to look on the bright side," he said cheerfully.

Derek glared, giving him the eyebrows of doom look and it was all Stiles could do not to laugh.

Drawing a deep breath, Stiles inched forward a little on his knees, peering cautiously out from behind their sheltering canopy.  Adrenaline was starting to pump through his veins, the jittery butterflies in his stomach making him feel both hyper alert and a little ill at the same time. Now was when they found out whether the plan was going to work or whether he'd gotten them killed. _It would work. Of course it would work. Totally. Oh God, please let this work._

The dogs' baying was faint now.  If their pursuers were all following the trail, this would work.  If they'd left somebody to keep an eye on the river for any reason... well, Stiles was just hoping they hadn't. He knew it was time to go, but it was harder to make himself move then he'd anticipated. It was like that moment on the very top of a rock climbing wall when you had to kick off to start rappelling back down and all your instincts told you that letting go of the wall and pushing backwards into space was very much not a good idea, but your brain told you the ropes and the harness would hold you and you just had to let go and trust.  Only here, there were no safety lines, and no way of knowing what lay on the other side of the plunge.

"Okay, well, here goes nothing," Stiles said, giving Derek a slightly shaky grin over his shoulder before he carefully and quietly eased himself out of their hiding place.

Once he'd forced himself to take that most difficult first step, the rest came easier.  With Derek close on his heels, Stiles slipped out into the stream, staying low in the water in order to splash as little as possible.  Unlike on their journey up stream, they now made straight out towards the center of the river where the water was the deepest.  Stiles felt his feet leave the bottom as the riverbed dropped away and the current took him.  Staying low and paddling just enough to keep his head barely above water, he let the strong current carry him along past the point where they had laid their false trail.

He felt like he was holding his breath the whole time, and not just because of the water that kept splashing in his face.  This was the most dangerous point of the endeavor, the moment when it was most likely that they could be spotted and everything would go to hell.  It was hard not to struggle more with the water, especially since it kept pushing him under, but he tried to move as little as possible. Every little splash he and Derek made felt glaringly loud and jarring.

Stiles tried to quietly gulp air before the river forced his head under again, holding him in the fierce undercurrent until his lungs burned and he finally had to claw his way back to the surface again or risk suffocation.  He came up gasping, but was relieved to see that he was already past the place where their pursuers had disappeared and a good ways downstream besides.  The water around him was churning and flecked with white as it rushed along, the current much more formidable here in the center of the river than it had been on the edges they'd clung to all last night.  It made staying afloat difficult, but it made their progress wonderfully rapid.  In just a few minutes, they'd cleared the large, curving bend in the river and were fully out of sight of the place where Yates and his companions hunted for them.

Stiles felt himself finally relax a little.  They weren't out of the woods yet _ha, ha,_ but it should be fairly smooth sailing from here.  The current yanked him under, making him swallow water in surprise when he bumped none-too-gently against a submerged rock that seemed to come out of nowhere.  Sputtering, Stiles clawed to the surface and started paddling in earnest, twisting and just managing to avoid being thrown into another bank of rocks on the opposite side of the river as the water rushed and tumbled him along.

_Okay, so maybe **smooth** wasn't **quite** the right word for it. _

The next time Stiles' head came up, he looked around for Derek. He found him a couple dozen yards further downstream, now ahead of Stiles. His dark head disappeared beneath the churning water for a minute, only to resurface several yards later.  The current was giving him a run for his money. Burdened by trying to keep hold of the shotgun and not let it bang into things, he seemed to be having a harder time keeping from getting spun around, but he appeared to be holding his own well _enough_.  At least, Stiles would have to hope so, because there wasn't much he was able to do right now but try to avoid either drowning or being dashed against the frequent jetties of rock. 

The violence of the current may be rough on their stiff, sore and already waterlogged bodies, but it was a definite boon to their need for speed. They were moving with almost dizzying swiftness compared to the long slog of their upstream journey.  At this rate, Stiles estimated they should almost certainly make it back to the station before the downstream pursuers could hope to cover any similar distance on foot. 

The one unforeseen hitch in Stiles' plan, which he only realized after they'd been in the water for a while, was that he had no idea _where_ exactly they would need to exit to get back to the station.  They'd run into the river in the dark. Stiles had been so focused on getting away that he hadn't taken any stock of their surroundings, which would doubtless all look different in daylight anyway. _Crap._

"Derek!" he hissed, spitting water and struggling to get close enough to converse with the other man without having to shout. It took him several minutes to maneuver himself through the water in an effort to approach and then he ended up getting a little _too_ close. The current slammed his body into Derek's unexpectedly, sending them both spinning for a minute in a tangle of arms and legs and white water. 

Derek came up choking and Stiles just grabbed the shotgun before it was ripped away by the current.  Losing the use of his hands immediately sent him under.  A second later Derek dragged him back up by the scruff of his shirt and pulled the shotgun away, letting Stiles get his hands working to keep him afloat once more.  Derek was kicking powerfully with his legs and seemed to have gotten the one-handed swimming thing down pretty well.

 "Sorry!" Stiles spluttered as they swam alongside one another again, close, but not _too_ close. "Derek, do you know where the station is?  I mean, like, where we went into the water?"

Derek looked at him as if he were daft.  "Of course," he half called, half coughed back. "There's a big, double-headed rock formation just before it. I picked a landmark when we went in. Didn't you?"

If Stiles hadn't been wet through and chilled from the long submersion, he probably would have flushed.  "Of course!" he retorted with a little too much indignation. "Just making sure you did."

Derek saw right through him. His lips quirked. "Uh-huh."

"Oh look," Stiles said brightly. "Rock!" he twisted to avoid the incoming jetty and managed to end up a good deal further back from Derek again. It was probably just the burble of the river, but he could swear he heard the faint sound of the bastard laughing at him.

Derek spotted the aforementioned rock formation first when they finally reached it.  Exiting the current proved to be a lot harder than entering it, and they overshot by quite a bit before they were finally able to make it to the bank and drag themselves out of the water.

Stiles felt like he weighed a million pounds without the added buoyancy of the water.  It was like being in space and then coming back under the dominion of gravity. Or he guessed that's what it would feel like, anyway, since he'd never actually been in space.

"Walking in wet shoes is not fun," Stiles informed Derek as they made their way through the trees and up a steep hill that Stiles thought he might vaguely recognize. "It is, in fact, very, very _un-_ fun, topped only by the barrel of non-laughs that is walking in wet socks." His feet hurt. The constant, prolonged wetness made them feel raw. "AND it all gets about ten times worse still when it's this hot.  Hot and wet. Yuck. You think the hot would dry out the wet, but I just feel like I'm steaming. Steamed Stiles. Great, now I sound like some kind of clam dish."

Derek did not bother answering, but Stiles didn't really require a response. He just felt the world needed to know how much the wet shoes and socks combo sucked.  

"God I'm glad you're one of those people with a GPS in their heads," he remarked a few minutes later as Derek led them into a narrow twisting canyon and then out the other side.  Stiles was totally serious about that. His plan had been brilliant and all even if he did say so himself, which he did, but he would have been _utterly_ lost out here a hundred times over without Derek's innate sense of direction and navigation skills.  He'd said he wasn't a survival expert, but Stiles was pretty sure he was selling himself short, at least as far as the dead reckoning part went.

"I'm just observant," Derek corrected. "Maybe you'd keep better track of your surroundings if you weren't always talking," he added, the hint of wryness in his tone keeping the words from sounding truly critical.

Stiles shrugged. "Oh, I doubt it. I'm way too easily distracted. Actually, talking kind of helps keep me on point. You do get that I haven't had my meds since ... okay, so I guess it was actually only yesterday, but it _feels_ a lot longer ago. Besides, I don't _need_ to, I've got my own personal Bear Grylls ," he said, patting Derek's shoulder.

"Your own what?" Derek asked, squinting in confusion.

"Not what, _who_ and never mind.  I'm guessing reality television hasn't been very high on your priority list. No great loss there, although, you know, if we make it out of this whole mess, I'm starting to think we should totally do Amazing Race or something, I mean, we make a pretty great team."

Stiles amused himself by silently considering what other competition shows he and Derek could possibly be a good fit for as they made the arduous trek back to the station. The musings were pointless, but they kept him distracted, kept him from focusing on his weariness and apprehension and how much _everything_ hurt.

When they finally reached their goal, Stiles decided their pursuers really were serious about covering their bases, because they had in fact left a guard there to watch the station and their cars. Only one man, however.  They could deal with one guy. Stiles had a plan.

That was how he ended up staggering out of the woods closest to the station, smeared with dirt and lurching about like a lost extra from the Walking Dead. Gurgling and groaning hideously, he clutched his chest, reaching wordlessly for the man as if desperately seeking help before he collapsed on the ground and proceeded to go into a shuddering series of convulsions that might have done an exorcist movie proud.

Naturally, the lone guard's attention was fully captured.  Weapon drawn, he hurried closer and then stood there uncertainly, watching Stiles convulse.  He shouted for Stiles to be still and demanded to know what was wrong in wary tones.

Stiles didn't respond, but he did go still. He gave one last shuddering convulsion before going limp, sprawled on the ground like a corpse. He did not respond to questions or threats and the man edged warily closer to check on him, gun trained cautiously on his still frame. The man was not about to be taken in by someone playing dead and watched him alertly for any sign of movement or hint that this was a trick.

Fortunately, however, he was _so_ focused on Stiles that he never saw the second man who had come down on the opposite side of the station, using the building to hide his approach.  One minute the guard was nudging Stiles' limp form with his foot, the next he was being jerked backwards and thrown to the earth. Derek clocked the man sharply with the butt of the rifle on his way down. 

The man's finger, already tense on the trigger of his weapon, squeezed automatically in reaction to the blow and the gun went off as he fell.  Derek had, fortunately, foreseen that possibility when he noticed how warily the man had been holding the piece. He couldn't keep the twitchy man from firing, but dragging him backwards before striking had at least ensured that the accidental discharge went into the ground, and not into Stiles. The gunshot was painfully loud in the still air and it set both Stiles and Derek's nerves on edge. 

The man on the ground was dazed, but still conscious, so Derek hit him again, twice.  Finally, he fell still and stayed that way, only the rise and fall of his chest indicating that he still lived.

Stiles scrambled up quickly, leaning over the unconscious man and going through his pockets as Derek retrieved some lengths of flexible wire with which to bind him and an old oil rag to use as a gag.

While Derek lashed the man's legs together with efficient speed, Stiles relieved the unfortunate fellow of his wallet and cell phone.  He pried the back off the cell, pulled out the battery and placed both pieces in one of his damp pockets, the wallet disappearing into another.

Derek, now busily engaged in gagging the man, shot Stiles a questioning look.

"Might be useful later to see his ID and contacts and stuff, but we don't want them able to track his phone to us," Stiles explained simply. "I want to know who this guy is. You can find out a lot from a guy's phone and the contents of his wallet." If there was any cash in the wallet, that would be nice too, but mostly he was after intel on the people hunting them. Any and all information they could get would be helpful for planning later on, once they got past the _not getting caught or dying_ phase of this affair.

Derek tucked the man's gun into the back of his jeans, as if the thought that might be useful, too.

"Disable their cars, I'll get our stuff," Stiles told Derek, waving at the other vehicles as he ran towards the shop. That gunshot had made him antsy and extra anxious to get out of here as quickly as possible.  Sounds like that carried. Kate's group of downstream searchers had to be on their way upstream by now and who knew what other forces or guards they might have positioned nearby?  The faster they were away, the happier he'd be.

Stiles' pillow was still in the corner of the store where he'd left it. He snatched it up and tucked it under one arm, balling up the blanket he'd been using and shoving that into the crook of his elbow, too. 

The main part of the station was relatively untouched, but Derek's room had been trashed.  Books had been pulled off the shelves and shaken out, then discarded on the floor. Clothing was strewn everywhere.  The bed was laying on its side and the ransackers had found his shoebox of mementos hidden in the wall. It was lying open on its side, the contents spilled out around it. Loose photos were strewn across the scarred floor where they had apparently been dropped after serving the purpose of confirming the identity of their owner.

The careless treatment made Stiles unaccountably angry for some reason.  He righted the box and gathered up the scattered contents, carefully placing them all back inside. He figured these were things Derek wouldn't want to lose. Closing the box, he tucked it under his other arm and grabbed up as much of Derek's loose clothing as he could carry, topping the load off with the blanket from overturned bed, because blankets were always useful, right? 

Hurrying outside, trailing a few random socks and something that looked suspiciously like a pair of briefs, Stiles awkwardly yanked open the back door of his jeep and shoved everything inside.  His jeeps' regrettably not very large trunk area was already full of a loose jumble of his own worldly possessions, but there was still plenty of room in the back seat. 

Stiles shut the door after depositing his armload of goods and looked around quickly.  The man they'd taken out was already gone from sight, probably locked in either the bathrooms or the tool shed. Derek was bending over the open hood of one of the bad guys' dusty black SUVS, busily sabotaging its engine.

Judging that he had a couple minutes more until Derek was finished, Stiles made a quick dash into the diner.  This building had obviously also been searched, leaving everything in a messy disarray. An upended cardboard box once filled with napkins partially blocked the doorway. Plucking it up, Stiles shook out the remaining napkins and set to work hurriedly filling it with as much of the canned food as he reach. If they had to lay low somewhere, a little food wouldn't go amiss. At the last moment, he remembered to look around for a can opener too. He'd made _that_ mistake before and could say definitively that rocks and pencils made lousy can opener replacements.

Outside, Derek finished disabling the other cars and snatched up his tool box. It seemed a useful thing to take with them, so he carried it around to the rear of Stiles' jeep.  He pulled open the back and found himself immediately stymied by the fluffy mass of junk that spilled out to greet him. An large, overflowing plastic laundry hamper took up most of the space, accompanied by stacks of notebooks, a backpack and several ripped grocery bags, all of which were doing a lousy job of containing their contents.

A mix of t-shirts, boxers and briefs tangled up with a framed photo slid off the top of the pile like the beginnings of a mini-avalanche.  Derek caught them, but several brightly colored highlighters got past him and managed to make good their escape, falling to the ground and rolling under the car.  Swearing, Derek quickly pushed back against the growing cascade of other barley identifiable items that were now trying to join the mass exodus. He shoved and knocked things into the back seat until the pile stabilized once more.  Frowning, he tried to figure out where he could put his tool box.  Setting it on top of the mass was out of the question, it would only slide right off and make an even bigger mess.  He judged that there was enough room for the small metal chest to fit in between the wall and the big white laundry basket if everything else wasn't so haphazardly placed. He didn't want to have to rearrange anything, but if he were careful he could probably slide it in on top of the notebooks and underneath what looked like a wad of unfolded bed sheets.

Attempting to shift everything up enough that he could push the box in underneath without causing another avalanche, Derek cautiously balanced what turned out to be an unwieldy snarl of dirty clothes, power cords, action figures and enough multi-color highlighters to supply a small school.  As he squeezed the toolbox in, he scraped his hand on the jagged end of a spiral bound notebook, one of almost a dozen stacked in the bottom of the trunk.

The top notebook bulged, uneven bits of non-notebook paper protruding from under the cover and between the pages. Behind the notebooks, Derek could just make out two loosely wrapped ceramic mugs emblazoned with witty sayings.  One of the bits of paper sticking out of the notebook looked like a newspaper clipping and the partial text caught Derek's attention.  _"... the missing man on the ..."_ was all he could see. He was reaching to tease the article out a little further when a surprisingly serious looking set of night vision goggles, tangled up with what appeared to be a tactical vest separated from the mass above and nearly fell out on him. He caught them automatically and quickly re-settled the curious items in a more secure position. _What the hell?_

Derek's brows furrowed. None of this seemed very much like road trip material. These were not the kind of things someone took on a vacation. It looked as if Stiles had a significant portion of his life packed up back here. Either he was living out of his car, working out of his car, or he had recently pulled up stakes from somewhere.

Finally getting the toolbox wedged in with one last push before anything else could fall on him, Derek caught sight of something else. Something small, sleek and black that was tucked down by the wall of the trunk, neatly hidden beneath all the daunting and seemingly innocuous clutter.

Derek pulled the object out, and everything inside him started running cold.

It was a cell phone.  It was _Stiles'_ cell phone, he was sure, because what else would it be doing in his car?  It must be Stiles' phone.  The phone Stiles insisted he didn't have.  An assertion Derek had believed, and upon which he'd based a lot of assumptions. With no way to contact the outside world, Stiles couldn't possibly have communicated with anyone while he was here, right?  He couldn't _possibly_ have told anyone about Derek, or the damning collection of photos he'd dug out of a secret hiding place behind his bed.  It wasn't possible, so Derek should think it was just coincidence that _Kate fucking Argent_ showed up at his door only a couple of days later.  It wasn't possible, so Derek should continue discounting all those little warning bells in his head that had kept him alive this long, because he didn't _want_ to think that way and Stiles _couldn't_ have been the one that gave him away.  And yet... and _yet._

Struggling for calm, Derek took another look at the night vision goggles. They looked cheaply made, but effective. Easing out and flipping open the cover of the notebook that had caught his attention before, he found it full of newspaper clippings, printouts and photographs. There were several layers of them, separated between notebook pages like pressed flowers.  Derek only skimmed the headlines of the articles, but each set seemed to focus on a different missing persons case. Some passages were underlined or highlighted and the pages of the notebook appeared filled with related notes, including detailed lists of the missing person's habits and particulars. There were printouts from several of the missing people's social media pages and what looked to be copies of case related photographs, judging by the various official looking watermarks and date stamps in the corners.  

Derek let the book fall shut and settle back atop the mess of bed sheets as he fought against the illness rising in his stomach and burning the back of his throat. What was he supposed to make of all this?  Stiles obviously had more than a passing interest in people who were hard to find. Did that include people who didn't _want_ to be found? Like him? Was that why Stiles was carrying around such a substantial wad of fresh bills? Because he'd just been paid for a completed job, or perhaps given a down payment on a new one? Was this what Stiles actually did for a living?

He didn't know. When it came right down to it, he knew exactly _nothing_ about Stiles' life or his past. He realized now that every time he'd prodded in that direction, Stiles had always evaded and changed the subject.  

Derek couldn't breathe.  Stiles' phone still clenched in his fist, he leaned both hands against the edge of the laundry hamper and let his head hang as he struggled for oxygen.  _No. NO. Stiles **hadn't** come here hunting him. He hadn't been the one who gave him away. It didn't make sense,_ Derek told himself. There was another explanation. There had to be.

He wanted to believe that. Wanted it so much it hurt. He wanted to believe that he was making too much out of this and Stiles wouldn't betray him, but experience had taught him otherwise far too many times. He was exhausted, sleep-deprived and running on adrenaline and fumes. His emotions were wildly out of whack and the raw fist squeezing his chest refused to let go. All attempts at denial and rationalization smacked strongly of self-delusion and he felt something in his chest start to crumble. He was an idiot.  He had been down this road so many times before he should have it memorized by now.  This wasn't the first time he'd felt sure, _so very sure,_ about how harmless or well intentioned someone was and every single time, it had cost him. Every. Single. Time.

_"Come on, you_ know _me, Derek. We practically grew up together. Let me help you. You and Laura shouldn't have to spend your life like this and I ... I can't take living like this anymore. You have no idea what it's like in my house. We have to do something. Let me try to make this right ..."_ Kate had seemed sincere, too.  She'd even backed it up with actions, just like Stiles had. She'd let him go when she could have held him. She'd warned him of danger and helped him 'escape'. They'd plotted and planned together for nearly two months. She'd seemed so utterly sincere.  She'd treated him like a friend ... right up until she finally got him to lead her to his sister. Then she stabbed him in the back.  Only _he_ wasn't the one who got stabbed. 

Derek's breath rattled in his chest, the pain of suspicion morphing into something darker and uglier as it triggered the horrible flood of memories that were never that far away.

_A red stain spreading in the moonlight. The agony and fear in Laura's eyes. Dark blood bubbling from her lips. The satisfied smile twisting Kate's face, like she'd bagged a prize stag.  The knowing expression in her eyes when she looked at Derek that seemed to say "I couldn't have done it without you."_

Stiles exited the diner and hurried back to the car with the heavy box of food stuffs held against his stomach.  He shoved it into the foot well behind the driver's seat and then noticed Derek standing behind the car by the open trunk.  He grimaced, knowing what a terrible mess it was and aware that he'd been tossing his dirty shorts back there for over a week with little regard for where they landed. 

"Oh, hey, uh, there's not really any room back there," he warned, hurrying around behind the car. Shoving back a couple of wayward items that were sticking out, he shut the trunk quickly, embarrassment hastening his movements and making them abrupt.

Derek read it as something else. "Oh? Something you don't want me to see in there?" he asked darkly.

Stiles was already moving back around the car, missing the shift in Derek's tone in his rush to be gone.  "Just my underwear, but I guess, too late for that, huh? Okay, come on big guy, let's rock and roll..."

Stiles was reaching for the driver's door when Derek stopped him.  Grabbing Stiles by the shirt, he pushed him up against the side of the car.  

Stiles squeaked in protest and surprise as he found himself suddenly pressed face-first into the warm metal and canvas exterior of his vehicle. He craned his neck, trying to see the other man over his shoulder.  "Hey!! Uh... um... Derek? Derek, what are you doing?!  As much as I might like you to push me up against a car in a different context, now isn't really the time. What the hell, dude?!"

"Who are you, really?" Derek's voice was tense. His hand, jammed between Stiles' shoulder blades, kept the boy in place as he patted Stiles' pockets with his other hand until he found Stiles' wallet and pulled it out. He couldn't ignore this anymore. He had to know. He had to find answers, one way or another. He could not afford to go another step with Stiles until he knew whether the young man was running with him for safety, or leading him into a trap.

Stiles squirmed, bucking against Derek's grip. "Derek, what the hell?!" he repeated. "What do you mean? Now is _not_ the time to get all existential on me, man.  What are you doing?!"

"You can learn a lot from a man's wallet and his phone, right?" Derek threw Stiles' earlier words back at him as he released him.  "I want to be wrong," he said quietly, although his voice remained hard. "God, I want to be wrong."

Stiles spun around to find Derek tearing quickly through his wallet, scanning the now measly amount of very wet dollars inside and looking over his ID and credit cards as if he could somehow find the truth of the cosmos hidden within.

Starting to get angry and thoroughly confused, Stiles gestured wildly around them. "Derek, have you gone postal?  What has gotten into you? You want my wallet, fine, you can freaking have it, but we _gotta go_!  Have a mental breakdown later, okay?"

Derek's face was set and closed off. There was an increasing light of anger simmering in his eyes and the hard set of his brows.  "Who the _hell_ is Prrrezem-eye-slaw?!" he demanded, holding up Stiles' driver's license and MasterCard while badly mangling the name displayed on both. "What is that, Russian? Eastern European?" Derek threw the cards at him.

Stiles instinctively scrambled to catch them, feeling utterly lost. He knew what Derek was attempting to pronounce without having to glance down at the bits of plastic emblazoned with his unfortunately legal moniker. He'd heard it mangled a thousand ways. If it weren't that his mother had given him the name, he would have been at the courthouse on his 18th birthday waiting to change it. 

"It's _Przemysław_ , you douche, _shem-eh-swav,_ " he corrected in mounting frustration, over-enunciating each syllable. He gripped the cards tightly in his fist. "And that's _me_. Is this really _important_ right now?!"

"You said your name was _Stiles,_ " Derek accused.

Stiles was totally fed up with this. "Yeah, well, wouldn't you? Nobody calls me Przemysław!  Most people, like you, can't even pronounce it _,_ and hey, who are you to talk anyway, _Miguel_?"

Derek pulled out another card and froze. He stared at the blue and red bit of plastic as if it might physically bite him, the rest of the wallet slipping from numb fingers and falling to the ground.

Stiles picked up the damp billfold, tucking his cards back in and staring at Derek with frustrated incomprehension and worry. He didn't understand what was going on and couldn't begin to figure out what on earth the other man could have found in his wallet that would freak him out so badly. Derek was actually _shaking._

"Derek?  Dude?  What...?"

Derek dropped his hand to his side, gripping the card in his fist as if he'd like to crush it. The plastic edges dug into his flesh so hard they actually cut him, a trickle of crimson slipping down between his fingers. 

Stiles' eyes went wide.  "Derek!" he cried in alarm, reaching for him, trying to make him stop.

Derek angrily snatched his arm away. Throwing the card on the ground with snarl, he grabbed the front of Stiles' shirt, slamming him violently back against the car again. 

Stiles' back impacted hard, the breath rushing out of him in a startled yelp. 

"You fucking little _liar,_ " Derek seethed, almost too shaken to speak.  There were tears burning his eyes. His voice was hoarse, trembling with rage and unspeakable pain. "I should... I should..." he shook his head and punched the side of the jeep next to Stiles, livid and clearly only _just_ restraining himself from hitting Stiles instead.

Stiles cringed and flinched, having thought that fist was meant for him. He shrunk back against the sun-heated body of his jeep as far as he could, totally freaked out now.  "Derek...!" he tried, voice shaking, but Derek didn't give him time for questions or protests.

"I _trusted_ you," Derek accused, sounding as if everything inside of him was cracking and breaking apart. He was crying, actually, crying. Tears streaming unabashedly down his face and putting a heartbreaking twist on the truly frightening rage contorting his features.

"I'm such a fucking _idiot_!! You think I'd learn, right?  Because Kate was so convincing too, right?  Oh, she wasn't like the rest of her family, _nooo,_ she thought it was all awful and wanted to _help_ us, and I fell for it and Laura _died._ And now you, with your stupid lame excuses and your stupid smiles and your... your stupid _stupidness_!  I knew something wasn't right. I _knew_ it, but you... _goddamn_ you!" He was choking, breath coming raggedly and much too fast. 

"You already had what you wanted, you knew it was me." Derek shook his head, an utterly lost expression flitting behind his stormy eyes. "You didn't have to..." he swallowed convulsively. "Why did you make me..." he couldn't finish the question. He could barely speak around all the hurt and betrayal choking him. Stiles hadn't _needed_ to seduce him. He hadn't _needed_ to ... to make Derek start _falling_ for him.  _Were you laughing at me, the whole time?_

Stiles shook his head desperately. He was starting to grasp the nature of Derek's anger, but he couldn't begin to understand where all this was coming from. Derek had gone off on him once before, for reasons he now understood, but what could _possibly_ have happened in the last five minutes to have so completely set the other man against him again _now_ , after everything they'd just been through together?

"Derek, I don't understand!  Back up a couple paces okay? What do you think I did?" Stiles tried to reason, unable to defend himself when he didn't fully comprehend the charges.

"What do I think you did?" Derek practically hissed the words through his teeth. "You really want to play that game?" He shook his head as if disgusted. "I don't know, _Stiles._ How about you tell me? Maybe start with the part where you're some kind of fucking bounty hunter wannabe?  I have to be honest, you seem kind of soft for that line of work," Derek ground the boy's body back harder against the car with his own, pressing into his flesh.  "Was this your first time going from pure research to actual field work?  Was the money just too good to pass up? Is that why you were incautious enough for Yates' people to pick up on your little venture and try to cash in themselves?" 

"I - wha - what?!" Stiles shook his head, even more lost now. "I'm not a bounty hunter!" he protested incredulously, squirming under the press of Derek's body which, given the circumstances, should probably not be evoking in him the reaction that it did.  "In what _universe_ does that even make sense, Derek? If I was working for those people, why would I be running _away_ from them with you?  I could have just shouted for them last night when we were on the hill, if I was on their side!" He gestured emphatically, arms flailing in agitation.

"Except I had a gun and could have killed you before they reached us," Derek pointed out, unmoved.  "Besides, maybe you had just as much reason as Yates to not want Kate to get me herself. That wouldn't do at all if you're in with her _competition_. I guess maybe Yates was right about Kate having problems at home, huh? You want to be in on the new power structure, Stiles?  Help nudge her out of favor?" He shook his head. "Let me tell you something, you shouldn't be trusting _anyone_ in that family. They will use you and then feed you to the wolves, trust me.  You're already dead and you just don't know it yet."

Stiles didn't even know what to say. Obviously, Derek's words must make sense to _him_ , but Stiles couldn't find any handholds on the slippery slope of the other man's paranoia. He felt like he was looking at everything from underwater and couldn't bring any of this into focus.  He blinked owlishly at the older man, suddenly feeling exhausted, stupid and incredibly frustrated. It hurt that Derek could believe these things of him.  It hurt that he was apparently so easy to mistrust. What was it about him that made people assume the worst? Why was he _always_ guilty until proven innocent?

"God, I'm so stupid," Derek spit, his fist twisting in Stiles' shirt.  "I should have known you thought too quick and knew too much. Of _course_ you didn't want to head into the back country with me.  You aren't strong enough to take me on by yourself, or carry me if I were incapacitated. You needed to get me to walk willingly into a situation you could control. Get me in the car so you could ride off with me and turn me in yourself, right?"

Stiles shook his head violently. "No!  Derek ... no!  I'm not working for them!" he protested, but Derek wasn't listening.

"Did you know they were coming last night?" There was something dark and ugly in Derek's anguished, angry eyes now. "Your contacts tip you off that Kate was on the move and so you had to try to keep me away, is that it?  You needed to distract me so I wouldn't come back too soon; keep me in the bomb shelter, any way you could?  You gonna try to get more money for having to fuck with me, or do you just _like_ screwing people over in every definition of the word?"  This was his own fault. It always was. Derek released Stiles with a shove, stumbling several paces back and shaking his head. _Stupid, stupid fool..._

He should have realized that if something seemed too good to be true, it _was._ Stiles had fit into the empty spot inside him too neatly, jumped into his battles and stuck by his side too easily.  People didn't do things that. There was no way someone like Stiles would give a damn about someone like him without a motive. He should have seen that from the start, but he'd been so desperate to believe that he had blinded himself. He'd bought into the fantasy without even realizing it and now the shattering of that illusion hurt so badly he quite literally couldn't think straight around the raw, visceral pain of the lacerations that it caused inside his already much too scarred heart.

Stiles staggered under the flow of cutting accusations, floored by the level of hatred being directed at him. Derek's angry, derisive words sliced him to the bone and it was hard to even draw breath around the ache of it. He felt like he'd been sucker punched. He understood Derek's paranoia, he really did, but _this?!_ What had he done to deserve this kind of treatment, other than spend all day slogging through _hell_ trying to help this man?

"You're fucking nuts, Derek," he shot back, voice trembling slightly as he tried to control himself. He tried to think rationally around all the hurt flowing through his overwrought emotions, because God knew one of them should. "I have _nothing_ to do with those people. Clearly, you don't want to believe me, but here's a news flash: we don't have time for this shit. I don't know if you've got PTSD and you're having a mental breakdown or what, but if you are quite done calling me a _traitorous whore_ , thank you very much, maybe you can get in the fucking car so we can get out of here and I can save your douchey, ungrateful, suspicious ass like I've been doing all day! Standing around here yelling at each other is a GREAT way to get killed, don't you think?!"

"I'm not going _anywhere_ with you." Derek pulled Stiles' cell phone out of the pocket he'd shoved it into when he'd taken the boy's wallet and threw it at him. 

Stiles fumbled, catching the flying object automatically. An expression of bewildered incomprehension and shock slackened his face when he realized what it was.  "Wha...?  Where did you get my phone?"  He turned it over in his hands, trying to understand. For a moment he thought maybe it was just the same brand and color, but no, it _had_ to be his. He recognized it, down to the familiar dent in the lower right corner of the frame from when he'd dropped it while giving Lydia an impromptu Skype tour of the student commons area. This made no sense. How did Derek have the phone he'd lost some sixty or seventy miles away from here?

"Don't give me that, you had it the whole time."  Derek shook his head. "I should have shot you when I first saw you."

Stiles' fist clenched hard around the phone. He had had enough. He'd tried to be the reasonable one. He'd tried to hold it together and not react to Derek's irrational behavior in kind, but he was so hurt, angry and torn by now that he was literally struggling to breathe. He wasn't going to get all sappy about what had happened between them, because okay, fine, it was just sex and to think there might have been anything more there would clearly just be too unforgivably stupid of him, wouldn't it?  But damn it all, they had been through a ton of crap together in the past 24 hours, didn't that mean _anything_?  He had risked his _ass_ for this guy. He was willing to help Derek run, to face a bunch of freaking armed goons with him, for God's sake!  He'd not done a single solitary thing to betray him, but Derek was accusing him anyway.  Derek assumed he was guilty. Just like _everyone_ did, _every fucking time_.

It didn't matter that he was innocent.  It didn't matter that he was in the right and had been trying to do the right things, or that circumstances could be something other than they first appeared. No. Nobody cared about that. _Nobody._ Not the strangers online who got off on judging and mocking him without knowing the first thing about what had actually happened, nor the board of stuffy officials and bureaucrats who saw him as nothing but a lying, cheating screw-up not worth their time or consideration. No, they thought he was guilty so that was it. They could destroy all his plans, slap a destructive label on him and throw him out on his ass just like that. Just like Derek.

"You know what?  Fuck you.  FUCK YOU!" Stiles said hoarsely.  He blinked, vision blurry with tears he hadn't realized he was crying. _Crap, how long had that been going on?_   He blinked harder, but it didn't help. He shook his head.  He was shaking and he couldn't stop. He dropped his stupid phone and almost just kicked it out of sheer frustration, but ended up bending down to pick it up instead. He retrieved the card Derek had thrown to the ground at his feet at the same time. It was an automatic motion, driven by a need to do something with his hands. He didn't care about the phone or the card. He didn't care about anything anymore. His chest was exploding with heat and caving inward with desolate darkness at the same time.  His lungs were heaving but he wasn't getting any air and spots were playing about in front of his eyes.  He gripped the objects in his hand so tight they hurt.

"FUCK YOU, YOU GIANT ASSHOLE!" he shouted, or _tried_ to shout. The words were so choked they barely came out any louder than speaking. Stiles wanted to scream, but his throat was closing off too tightly. A thousand things were clouding his mind and none of them were making it to his mouth.  Tears streaming down his face, he shook his head again and groped blindly for his jeep's door handle, somehow managing to catch hold of it and fling the door open. 

"You know what?  Fine!  FINE!  You know so much?  Fan-fucking-tastic!  Have it your own way.  You think I'm a traitor? Then you should get the hell away from me, shouldn't you?  And I hope I never see you again you ... you _giant fucking asshole_!" he repeated, feeling distinctly un-original, but too broken up to care. It was all too much. He was still too raw from the wounds that had sent him running out here in the first place. He couldn't do this again, not with Derek.  Not after he'd ... oh holy _shit,_ after he'd freaking _fallen_ for him. _GOD Stilinski!  Stupid, stupid, stupid!!_

Barely aware of what he was holding, Stiles flung the things in his hand onto the passenger seat as he swung up into the jeep. His phone and the loose credit card landed on the seat; his wallet bounced and careened down into the foot well. He was crying so hard he could barely see what he was doing. He more than halfway expected Derek to stop him and drag him out at any minute. He expected the other man to hit him or take the car or _something..._ wouldn't that make sense if Stiles was everything Derek thought he was? 

Derek did none of those things. Instead, he simply turned and stalked away as Stiles slammed the door.  Stiles hesitated, frowning through his tears, uncertain of what was happening until he heard the rumble of an engine behind the station and realized that Derek must have just fired up the old 4x4 pickup that served as the station's tow truck and was now the only car here besides Stiles' jeep that was still operational. This was confirmed a moment later when the truck pulled out from behind the station, Derek behind the wheel.

In a crunching of gravel, the truck pulled level with the jeep while Stiles was still trying to process what was happening. 

"Don't follow me, or I _will_ shoot you," Derek warned him through the open window. "And if you're _stupid_ enough to let Kate know how you tried to double cross her by telling her where I've gone, then you deserve what you'll get."  With that, he gunned the engine and sped away. Crossing the road but not following it, he headed out across country.

Derek pushed the groaning, jouncing old vehicle hard, not at all sure it was going to be up to this trip, but having no other viable options. His mind was in turmoil. He was going to try the cross country route to the highway because it was the only possible route of escape that hopefully wasn't being watched ... but Stiles knew the plan. Stiles had _made_ the plan. Derek hadn't searched his vehicle for weapons. Stiles may not be up to taking him in a physical fight, but if he was armed he might come after him. Stiles really would be an idiot to tattle on him to Kate, but maybe Derek had it wrong and he was working with Yates, and even if not he probably had his own people he was busy getting in touch with right now.  Derek cursed himself as he realized that he had been so upset he hadn't even thought to take Stiles' phone and had in fact given it _back_ to him. Swearing aloud, he struck the steering wheel violently with the heel of his hand. Was there any _possible_ way he could mess everything up more than he already had? _Not likely._ If Stiles' allies were close, they could be mobilizing to cut him off right now and that would mean Derek was totally screwed.

He should have killed Stiles. Instead, he'd handed the man another chance to betray him.  For a moment back there, he'd considered knocking Stiles out, taking his jeep and leaving him stranded for Kate to find and take out her displeasure upon. Even if he hadn't been ready to be that cruel, he should have at least put a bullet in his head ... but he couldn't.  He couldn't because he was an idiot and even if it was all just brilliant acting, Stiles had been standing there practically _sobbing_ and Derek ... Derek couldn't see past it. He couldn't see past the person he'd _thought_ Stiles was to whatever truth actually lay beneath. He couldn't get past the image of the young man that had spent the past few days with him and stuck by his side as it all went to hell. He knew in his head that was all a lie and he was being completely stupid, but that didn't seem to matter to his heart. Things had gone too far, Derek had gotten himself in too deep and he simply could not bring himself to do Stiles harm, even knowing what he now knew. If that meant he was fucked, then, he was fucked. 

Derek had made too many mistakes in his life. He could no longer trust his own judgment, not enough to take a life.  He realized with surprise and dismay that there was still some part of him clinging to the very, very small chance that maybe he was completely wrong and there was some other valid explanation that could cover all the damning facts against Stiles. Or that perhaps he was right, but that Stiles had started to change his mind along the way and maybe ... _maybe_ some of what they'd shared had been genuine.  Those were stupid, stupid little hopes built on far too much fantasy and having read too many dumb books where things always worked out in ways that never happened in the real world, but it was there nevertheless, if only to prove once and for all what a moron he was.

He supposed none of that really mattered anymore at this point. What was done was done. Stiles could betray him or not; all he could do was run.  That's all he'd ever been able to do.

Stiles stared numbly at the receding shape of the lumbering truck and the large dust cloud it was kicking up for a few moments before he finally fumbled back into action.  Wiping his eyes and sniffing, he retrieved his keys from where he'd left them stashed under the seat and revved the engine to life.  Popping the car into gear, he took off in more or less the same manner that Derek just had.

It was all well and good for Derek to say not to follow him, but what other direction was Stiles supposed to go?  He still had to make it to the highway, and this was the only way he could go without being easily spotted.  A lone car traveling down the road was going to attract the attention of the watchers Kate had set, and his jeep could too easily be identified as the one from the station. Even without Derek, he still needed to get some place with enough traffic that he could blend in and lose himself before he would be safe.

Steering out into the hilly, rough terrain of the desert and quickly enveloped in a dust cloud of his own, Stiles angled away to the left, trying to take as much of a different trajectory from Derek as he could while still aiming to meet up with the highway.  Numbly, he hoped that maybe splitting up would at least do the good of forcing their pursuers to split up too, whenever they eventually found out what happened.  Maybe it could buy Derek a little extra time, because... even if he _was_ a giant fucking asshole, Stiles still desperately wanted him to escape and be okay.

Stiles' wet clothes were clinging to him, hot and sticky now in the confines of the car.  The landscape was rough and although the tough little jeep was handling it well, the suspension was doing exactly nothing to cushion the ride.  Stiles bounced all over in his seat, which felt pretty awful on his sore body. He tried not to think about it, especially because of how he'd gotten some of that soreness.  The hard objects in his pockets dug into him uncomfortably as the car rattled and after a minute Stiles dug distractedly into his pockets with one hand, grabbing the cell phone parts and wallet he'd taken off the guard at the station and tossing them carelessly into the passenger side foot well.

Continually wiping his eyes and trying hard to focus on the task ahead of him, Stiles spared a glance at the other phone on the seat next to him. _His phone._ He was still really confused about where on earth Derek had gotten the phone that he'd thought lost and likely smashed into a million pieces somewhere along the roadside.  Derek had been doing something in the back of his jeep when he came out of the diner... was it possible that Stiles _hadn't_ set the phone on top of the car with his coffee when he left Redding? 

He tried to remember back to the morning he left the motel, before his fateful, impulsive detour towards the Rainbow Canyons and the subsequent car trouble that had led to him meeting Derek.  His mind felt spongy and dull as he tried to reconstruct the events. His phone was off, he remembered that much. He'd turned it off the previous night when ignoring the persistent vibrations of incoming tweets and Scott's intermittent dribble of equally persistent worried text messages had become too emotionally draining.  There was, perhaps, some part of him that had unconsciously _wanted_ to lose the phone, or at least not turn it back on again for a while.

_He was carrying his pillow and toiletries bag along with some clothes and night stuff bundled up in his arms, juggling his phone and a large paper coffee cup when he went out to his jeep.  He'd set the phone and coffee on top of the car before shoving everything else in the back..._ or had he?  He didn't actually remember the actions, he just figured that's what _must_ have happened 20 miles later when he finally realized he had neither phone nor coffee in the cup holders where he usually kept both.  Maybe he'd only put the coffee on the roof, and his phone had fallen in with the rest of the stuff he shoved in the back?  That was the only explanation that made sense, given the phone's reappearance. 

He wished he could explain all that to Derek now that he had worked it out, but no, Derek probably wouldn't believe him anyway. He'd clearly already made up his mind. Stiles was done begging people to believe him if they wanted to think the worst on only the flimsiest amount of suspicious evidence. _Let them._ If the simple facts that he had stupidly misplaced his phone and went by a nickname were enough to condemn him in Derek's eyes, then _whatever._  

Stiles didn't think he was being unreasonable about this. He understood that Derek had been _seriously_ hurt and had a lot of reason to be suspicious of everybody, he did. The guy probably really did have some form of PTSD he told himself, and he tried to let that temper the hurt and anger he was feeling.  It wasn't doing much yet, but eventually it might. If he lived that long.

He dropped the phone into the cup holder where he usually kept it.  As he did, Stiles caught sight of the blood streaked card also on the seat beside him, the one that had caused Derek to freak out so badly.  Stiles frowned at the offending object, uncertain what it was. It wasn't his license or one of his two credit cards. Keeping one hand on the wheel he picked the card up with the other to examine it. Turning it over, he finally recognized it. It was a Chevron gas card; a station specific credit card good for use at any of the chain's locations.

He hadn't recognized it immediately, because it wasn't actually his. Aware that his credit cards were close to maxed and that he wasn't about to contact his father for money, Allison had given him the card before he took off.  He'd tried to refuse, but she'd been insistent. _"Just in case,"_ she had said as she pressed it into his hand, her earnest eyes begging him to take it. _"For emergencies on the road if nothing else. Please?"_  

He'd relented because that was easier than arguing and making the only two people who gave a damn about him feel more crappy than they already did. Scott had looked as sad and angry as a kicked puppy and Stiles had just wanted to escape before his best friend started getting any stupid ideas about wrecking his own life out of a misguided sense of loyalty. 

The card could be used at the pump without needing a signature. Allison had told him that he didn't need to worry about paying her back and to feel free to use it for gas.  Stiles hadn't. He'd never intended to, unless he ran out of his traveling cash unexpectedly, but the offer had been genuine and it had been nice of her to do that. He knew Allison felt responsible in a way for some of what had happened, even though none of it had been her fault. Stiles was the one who should have known better ... but apparently, he was an all around truly horrible judge of character who consistently ended up with complete jerks. 

Stiles tossed the card back on the seat with a scowl. He had no idea why Derek should have reacted so badly over it. Sure, Derek had clearly already thought Stiles was using at least one alias, but did Derek really think he was sometimes passing himself off as _Allison?_ As he thought this, Stiles' eyes strayed one more time to the card ... and suddenly the world felt like it went into slow motion, something sparking sharply in his brain as his gaze caught and held on the upraised letters that spelled out his friend's full name.

_Allison Argent._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I did mention there was going to be angst, right? :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience everyone! This has been a very busy month for me. I apologize in advance for any typos or errors in this chapter, I haven't checked it over as thoroughly as usual but I wanted to get it posted for you before I have to leave. I probably won't be able to finish and post the next chapter until after New Years, but after that things should start settling back to normal and I will hopefully be able to update more often again. :) Happy Holidays everybody! <3

Stiles slammed on his brakes so hard he nearly put himself through the windshield.  His mind whirled wildly, trying to match up the new things he'd recently learned with the slew half-remembered conversations and incidentally acquired information now assailing him.

_Allison Argent._

"Holy fuck!" he muttered aloud in shock, feeling cold all over as the latent strands formed and connected in his brain, like one of those paintings in art class that suddenly formed a picture when you moved far enough away from it, or a 3D image in a puzzle book that came to life when you blurred your eyes and looked at it from the right angle.

"Holy _fuck,_ " he repeated, staring unseeing out the windshield.  Allison's father, Chris, was the only member of her family Stiles had ever met, but years ago he remembered hearing from someone, most likely Scott, that her estranged grandfather was in politics and she had an aunt who ran some sort of private security company. He was also aware that there had been some big family falling out before Allison and her father moved to Beacon Hills. Stiles had the vague notion it had had something to do with her mother's death, but how or why he wasn't sure. If Allison had ever confided anything more detailed about that tragic part of her life to anyone over the years, it would have been to Scott, not to him.

To be honest, Stiles had spent a lot of time feeling kind of like a third wheel when Scott and Allison first started dating and he hadn't _exactly_ made an effort to get to know her, initially. Unexpectedly, however, Allison hadn't tried to cut him out. She hadn't tried to take Scott away from him and had in fact started making a concerted effort to make Stiles feel included; picking up on his unhappiness much quicker than his dear but occasionally clueless best friend. It had ultimately been impossible to hate her. Allison and Scott had been together since junior year. By now Stiles considered her a good friend, but they didn't really talk about personal things.  Their deep, meaningful conversations tended to consist of topics like their mutual interest in medieval weaponry, whether or not their Humanities teacher wore a toupee and how outrageous it was that people classed Frankenstein as a horror story rather than a tragedy.

All Stiles knew about her life before he met her was that Allison's mother had died in a car accident and, according to Allison, her father had cut off all communication with his side of the family when they moved. He seemed fairly set against her having any contact with them, but there was nothing unusual about relatives disliking one another and it had had pretty much no impact whatsoever on their high school years.

The only time Stiles ever recalled it becoming an issue was when they were getting ready to head off to University. There had been a small kerfuffle in Allison's family because her grandfather wanted to pay her tuition and her dad was completely against it. Allison didn't like feeling stuck in the middle and wasn't exactly sure why it would be so awful to not end up with any student loans. There had been some tension between she and her father for a while, but it hadn't lasted. Whatever was said and however that situation was resolved he wasn't sure, but he knew she ultimately hadn't taken her grandfather's money.  

Her grandfather, who was rich and in politics.

_Allison **Argent.** Senator Gerard **Argent**.  _

_That_ was why Gerard's name had sparked something in his mind when Derek said it earlier.  He'd heard of Senator Gerard Argent in passing before, on the news or some such place.  At the time, he'd mentally made the tentative, name-based connection that the man might be a relation of Allison's, and then promptly forgot it again as unimportant.  He was sure now, that he was right. If Gerard Argent was indeed Allison's grandfather, then that meant Kate was her aunt with the private security company and she was also Chris Argent's _sister_. 

The connections may seem simple, but Stiles found all of this more than a little mind blowing.  He'd formed a definite mental picture of Gerard and Kate from Derek's story and was now having a very hard time fitting Allison and Chris into it. They were just _normal_ people.  He'd known Allison for years and Mr. Argent was one of his dad's best friends. He couldn't believe that Allison knew anything about any of this, but what about her father?  Did he _know?!_ How could he _not_? This was _his_ father and sister they were talking about. He _had_ to know. _Good God..._ No wonder he wanted his daughter to have nothing to do with them.

Heart in his throat, Stiles hooked an arm over the seat next to him and quickly threw the car in reverse, pivoting carefully around until he had made a 180 degree turn. In the wide open landscape, he could still clearly see the rising column of dust in the distance that marked the path of Derek's pickup. Jamming his foot on the gas pedal, he took off fast as he could in that direction. 

_Holy crap, it was no **wonder** Derek thought he'd sold him out._ It must have been a terrible shock for Derek to see the Argent name in his wallet. The accusations the other man had hurled at him were finally beginning to make sense.  Naturally, Derek didn't know that Allison wasn't involved with her grandfather and aunt's mess. He must have thought this Allison person was somehow sponsoring Stiles. Perhaps trying to climb the family ladder and get one up on Kate by nabbing him first. It was all a huge misunderstanding of course, but the coincidence was staggering enough that Stiles could hardly believe it himself. He couldn't really blame Derek for freaking out, especially given his history.

Now that he understood, there was no way he could walk away from Derek. Somehow, he would have to make the other man believe him. He had no idea how he was going to do that if Derek remained as unreceptive as he'd been before, but he'd think of something. He tried _not_ to think about the fact that Derek was carrying two weapons and had threatened to shoot him if he saw him again.  That was probably just talk. Probably. Maybe.  Hopefully.

Pushing his jeep up one side of a sloping, shrub covered hill and down the other as he bumped along in pursuit of Derek, Stiles frowned, finding something new and even more disturbing to worry about. He couldn't see Derek's truck amid the rolling hills and canyons, but he was able to figure out its location because of the billowing cloud of dust that rose in its wake, as visible as a smoke signal above the dry landscape. Looking in the rearview, he could see he was kicking up a similar trail.  If _he_ could follow Derek this way, it meant that anyone coming after them would be able to do the same.

_Crap._ He hadn't thought of that when he'd come up with this idea. It was still the best of a bad set of options, but he couldn't shake the nagging sensation that they were pushing their luck past its breaking point.  He was already going as fast as he safely could, which unfortunately wasn't all that fast, but he pressed the gas pedal a little harder anyway, wishing Roscoe could fly.

The terrain grew increasingly rough and Stiles was forced to slow or risk ripping out his undercarriage. Rolling hills were giving way to sharper, more dramatic cliffs and canyons. Far from any source of water, the trees were much sparser out here than they had been in the valley with the river, but the landscape was no less jagged and chaotic. There were many places a car physically could not go, forcing Stiles to have to find winding pathways and pseudo trails to follow rather than simply going as the crow flew. Several times he completely lost sight of Derek's trail as he descended into a canyon or a dip between the hills, but he always picked it up again once he made a higher elevation.

A couple of times Stiles had been able to catch a glimpse of Derek's pickup from a distance, but for the most part he was still just following the dust.  Derek was pushing hard and seemed to be making a concerted effort to lose him, which, honestly, made sense given what the other man obviously thought about him right now. Chasing someone who was already running _probably_ wasn't a great idea, but Stiles was fresh out of good ideas at present and would settle for questionably mediocre ones.

He wasn't sure how long it was that he dipped and wove and crunched along like this but as he topped the apex of yet another hill, he saw in the rearview mirror that which he had most been dreading. 

He saw dust trails in the distance, _behind_ him. 

Adrenaline spiked through his body and his first instinct was to slam his foot down harder, to _run, run, run._ He forced himself not to give into the panic and instead of speeding up he slowed down, twisting in his seat to get a better look at the landscape behind him.

The hill he was on gave him a decent, if not great vantage point. His position and the intervening landscape meant that he could no longer see the station or the road in the distance behind him, but what he _could_ see, was a thick column of dust rising into the air. It was far away, but clearly moving in this direction. It was a lot thicker and more visible than the trail of the lone truck that he'd been following, meaning there were probably at least a couple vehicles involved.

They were being pursued.  He knew it in his gut.  He didn't know how or from where their pursuers had gotten more vehicles, or if they'd somehow managed to fix the ones at the station, but it had to be them. There was no reason for anyone to be out here, to be foolishly risking their cars driving through this crazy rough terrain, unless they were chasing him and Derek.  Maybe Kate's group _had_ been passing by on their trek upriver and heard the gunshot from the station. Maybe the other men they'd left to watch the road somewhere had spotted the fleeing dust trails and called in reinforcements. He didn't know and it didn't matter.  What mattered was trying to make sure they didn't catch up. 

Stiles goosed the accelerator again and rumbled away down the hill. He lost sight of their pursuers as he did, but he knew they were still there. He could feel it like an itch on the back of his neck or a thread of tension knotting between his shoulder blades.

The terrain grew worse and worse, a jumble of jagged canyons, steep cliffs, loose gravel and treacherous stretches of loose, sandy soil that threatened to make him lose traction.  His jeep faired pretty well with the sandpits in the valleys, but less well with the loose, crumbling hillsides, especially as the grades became increasingly steep.  More than once, Stiles found himself pitching headlong down a shifting, gravely incline, skidding along amid a mini-avalanche of small stones and parched earth in a barely controlled slide. His heart was working overtime, but as scary as the downhill trips were, he was more afraid he was going to run into a dead end one of these times and be trapped.  He could power his way up most of the scrubby type of hills just fine, but there was no way his jeep would be able to make it _up_ one of these slopes that was pure gravel and sand. 

He had to pick his way along carefully to avoid getting trapped, and that slowed him down further. He very nearly did get trapped in one winding little canyon, but it wasn't too steep or too narrow and he was able to eventually work his way up and out.

When he did, he saw that the trails behind him had gotten close enough to separate into the small, dark shapes of distinct vehicles.  Still a ways off, but gaining rapidly. Too rapidly. Either their newer vehicles were handling the off-road journey better, or, more likely, they were cheating and had topographical satellite maps that were enabling them to chart a better, less wandering and uncertain course through this wilderness. 

Plunging over the next rise, swooping down a hill and through a broad, clockwise turn, Stiles finally ran into Derek.  He almost _literally_ ran into him, but fortunately he swerved in time. 

The jeep's newly rebuilt engine seemed to have a lot more power than it had before and its aging body had been built for off-road activity. Stiles had been making good time and had gained considerable ground on Derek, whose old truck was weighted down with the towing attachments and not quite as up to the challenge.  Still, Derek knew how to get the most out of the vehicle and it likely would have taken Stiles longer to catch up completely, if the pickup hadn't become mired in a thick patch of loose sand.

Understanding the problem at once when he saw Derek standing behind the truck and trying to push it out, Stiles veered to the right before rolling to an abrupt stop, carefully planting himself on a stretch of prickly scrub growth several yards away to avoid getting stuck as well.

"Derek!" Jumping out of his jeep, Stiles crossed the short distance between them at a run. Only now did he realize he probably should have spent some of that time driving just now to figure out what exactly he was going to say to try to get Derek to understand the situation for what it was, or at least not kill him on sight. Oh well, too late now. He'd... he'd think of something.  _Yeah, because **that** always works out so well, _the sarcastic little voice in the back of his head commented unhelpfully.

Derek let go of the rear bumper of the truck and spun towards him, pulling the gun he'd taken off the guard from the back of his pants and leveling it towards the approaching teen. Streaked with dirt and dust, eyes wild and hopeless, the older man looked terrible.

"I told you not to follow me!" There was more despair than anger in the hoarse shout.  "Damn it, I wasn't kidding, Stiles!"  Derek's voice was raw, his body tense. He had the look of a cornered animal - the dangerous kind, like a wolf or a bear; the kind that would kill you if you got too close.

Ignoring the danger, Stiles walked right up to him. Hands held non-threateningly out to the side, he let the barrel of the gun press into his chest, stopping barely two feet from Derek.

"I know," he said quietly, glancing between the gun at his heart and Derek's face. He gave a convulsive little swallow, but didn't back off. "And I understand why, now. It-it's Allison, right? Because of the card she gave me and her name... but it's not what you think, Derek. I swear to you, it's not what you think." He swallowed again, knowing how terribly suspicious the coincidence of his connection to the Argents was and feeling unfortunately certain they didn't have time for him to try to walk Derek through all that right now in any way that would actually be convincing.  "I swear I didn't know _anything_ about this before I met you and I really _did_ think I lost my phone. I thought I put it on top of the car and drove off but I guess I didn't and it must have fallen in the back with my other stuff," he pressed on instead.

"Please, Derek," he said urgently, glancing nervously over his shoulder.  "I'm not armed and I'm not a threat," he waved his empty hands up and down a little to illustrate the point. "But the people who _are_ aren't far behind us," he jerked his chin towards the direction from which he'd just come.  "I can explain everything, I promise, but we need to keep moving." He backed up a pace, glancing over his shoulder towards his jeep.  "Come with me. Let's get out of here. You don't have to trust me, just trust that I don't want to die.  You've got the gun, right?  You can keep it on me if it makes you feel better. You can shoot me later if you don't like what I've got to say."

Derek looked for a moment like he was considering it, but then he shook his head and walked away towards the truck's cab. "You don't want to die?  Then get out of here. Death has a way of following me," he said flatly, swinging up into the seat and trying the gas pedal.

Stiles trotted after him, noting that Derek had placed some thin branches underneath the rear tires of the truck, trying to give it something to find traction against. The ground grew firmer only a few feet ahead and he obviously hoped to be able to gain enough momentary traction to surge forward and gain firmer footing.  Unfortunately, the paltry greenery was not up to the task and the wheels just spun the branches uselessly into the soft, shifting sand, pushing them out sideways.

Swearing, Derek let up on the pedal and hopped back out. He was still holding the gun, but only distractedly so. Stiles grabbed his arm and it came up again quickly.

Stiles made an exasperated face, rolling his eyes at the gun shoving in his face. "Don't be stupid, come on!  They're coming!" he tried to tug Derek with him, but the other man growled and pulled away.

"I don't know what your game is, and I don't care. Just go while you still can, all right?!" Derek shook him off and bent by the rear wheels, trying to fix the angle of the branches beneath the tires. He did not seem to be seriously intending to shoot Stiles, but neither did he seem willing to get in the car with him and risk putting himself at the other man's mercy.

"AhhhhHH!!" Stiles yelled wordlessly in frustration as he spun around and jogged quickly back to his jeep. "You are the most pig headed, frustrating man I have _ever_ met and that is saying a lot, okay?" he groused as he reached into the back seat and yanked free one of the blankets he'd taken from the station.  He carried it back to the stuck pickup truck and shouldered Derek aside, crouching to shove the material in front of the rear tires, as far under the car as he could reach.

Derek frowned at him. "What are you doing?"

Stiles straightened up and hurried around to the other side of the car, flopping onto his stomach and trying to reach the fabric under the car from that side. "The tires need to be able to grip onto something to move forward. Traction, that's what you were trying to do with the branches, right?  Well, that's what I'm trying to do. Trying to get your stupid truck out of the stupid sand since you're too _stupid_ to just use the car that's actually _working_ because you somehow think I'm devious or strong enough to have my wicked way with you if you dare get in the same vehicle as me. Which, you know, thanks, I guess, for thinking I would stand a chance against you _and_ a gun, but, really, let's be serious, no.  _Unnngh,_ push the blanket over a little more, will you? I can't reach."

The words came out in one endless, run-on flow and it took Derek a moment to realize he'd actually been asked to do something. Stiles grunted impatiently from under the car and he quickly knelt and shoved the blanket further across to him. Together they spread it out in front of the tires, shoving it down into the loose, sandy earth in front of the wheels as far as they could to make sure it would catch. He understood the use of the blanket for this purpose just fine, that hadn't been what he'd meant before. What he _didn't_ understand what Stiles wanted, why he was still here, why he was doing _this._

Derek's eyes and head felt gritty. The sun was too hot and not sleeping in over 24 hours was taking its toll. Adrenaline, heat and fear made him feel like throwing up. There was a part of him that wanted to just put the gun to his own head and end it all, an urge he'd never felt before. Stiles' betrayal had taken something out of him, something he couldn't afford to lose. He was running on empty on every level. He felt like everything around him was on fast forward and he processing it all too slowly. Stiles was this glowing orb of purpose and momentum, sucking him into orbit against his will. He couldn't trust him. He wanted to, fool that he was, but he couldn't. Arguing with him was like swimming upstream, however, and Derek no longer had the strength for that. Besides, Stiles was right, there was no time. He'd seen the multiple dust trails behind him for a while now. Stiles wasn't the only one who had been chasing him. He needed to get the car moving again. Needed the freedom to run.  That was the only thing he could focus on. The only thing that made sense.

The blanket in place, Stiles ran around to the front and swung up into the cab.  "Push!" he called out the window to Derek, giving him brief moments to comply and get in place before he pressed the gas pedal. He pushed a little too cautiously and the wheels spun but didn't catch.

Derek threw himself against the back of the truck, heaving all his weight against it.  "Floor it!" he shouted up to Stiles.

Stiles obeyed and suddenly the car was moving forward. It lurched once, twice, and then it was moving.  Derek stumbled after it a few paces until it pulled away as it picked up speed.  Stiles started to slow and Derek waved his hand, knowing if he stopped now the truck would settle and they'd have to do this all over again. "Keep going! A little farther, get it clear!"

Again, Stiles headed him, driving the truck a good fifty or sixty yards away before he stopped. Stiles started to get out of the cab and Derek started trotting towards him. Then the earth exploded directly in front of Derek.  Derek only registered the sharp crack of the rifle after the fact, but fortunately his body reacted quicker than his mind. He was already throwing himself sideways as another shot struck the ground nearby. Stiles and the truck were too far away. The distance between them nearly half a football field in length. He'd never make it under fire.  The nearest cover was Stiles' idling jeep, much nearer at hand and he ran for it like his life depended upon it, because it did.

Stiles didn't understand what had happened at first when the earth exploded near Derek.  A ridiculous idea about landmines flashed through his mind, but then he heard the crack of the second shot and his gaze snapped up to the brow of the hill to their right. The dark shape of a car bumping along it's ridge was visible. He was too surprised to swear. He'd missed the sounds of their engines over the roar of the truck escaping from the sand trap. He'd expected the pursuers to come the way he'd come, but he must have been right about them using some kind of other form of navigation because apparently they'd skipped the switchback canyons he and Derek had just struggled through and taken a shortcut to head them off.  They were still a little distance away, but already alarmingly close and closing fast, not to mention being within weapons range.   

Whoever was leaning out the window of the car and shooting must be either pretty damn good or incredibly lucky to be getting so close to their mark at this distance from a moving vehicle.

Stiles saw Derek dive into his jeep and put it into drive. "Oh, great, _now_ you want to get in," he groused at the other man even though Derek couldn't possibly hear him.  "Watch the gear shifts!"

Swinging quickly back up into the cab of the idling truck beside him, Stiles automatically tugged on his seatbelt and threw it back into drive. Two cars were now hurtling down the hill towards them and a third had just topped the rise.  _Where the hell had they gotten them, did they have a magic car fairy or something?_ They were all black SUVs like the ones at the station, but Stiles suspected they were probably fresh reinforcements since he was pretty sure Derek had trashed the others. It was ridiculously unfair when the bad guys were this well prepared.

They were in a wide valley, there weren't too many directions they could go beside forward, but Stiles angled right while Derek angled left, the two of them splitting up with the mutual intention of forcing their pursuers to divide in order to chase them. 

Unfortunately, this didn't quite go as planned since their pursuers seemed aware of which car Derek was in. Stiles realized no one was following as he forced the lumbering pickup up the rising incline ahead of him. All three cars were pursuing Derek. The valley was narrowing, forcing them all horizontally back together but widening their vertical distance as the grade grew steeper. Stiles was still climbing while the path Derek and his pursuers were on on slanted downward. Stiles realized that they were all now more or less heading the same way, just at different altitudes.  Below, he could see his jeep racing ahead of the pursuers' cars. Derek was serving back and forth to avoid bursts of gunfire. The zigzags unfortunately slowed his forward progress, allowing the pursuers to gain more ground.

"HEY!" Stiles shouted in useless outrage as a couple bullets slammed into the back of his car, although they seemed to do no greater damage than lodging in the solid metal body. "Stop shooting at my car!" he fumed.  "And Derek!" he added as an afterthought.

Derek's shotgun was on the front seat beside Stiles.  He picked it up one handed and fumbled with it until he got it angled across him with the barrel out the open driver side window. Trying to drive with one hand and work the shotgun at this awkward angle with the other was difficult to say the least. He didn't want to slow down, but couldn't help doing so a little as aimed in more or less the direction of the lead car.

Stiles was fairly familiar with firearms from time spent at the firing range with his dad, after he'd finally convinced him he was responsible enough to learn. He had a good angle from up here, but the awkward position and his speed worked against him. It was more sheer luck than skill that he hit anything when he fired.  He hit the windshield of the lead car high up and near the left corner. The glass frosted into spider webs. The shot as too high to hit anyone and the car kept coming, but it swerved crazily in reaction before it regained control, forcing the other cars driving beside it to also swerve and buying Derek a few more precious yards.

Stiles winced, tossing the empty shotgun back onto the seat as his ears rang painfully from the weapon discharge in the enclosed space. _Ouch._   He didn't hear the whine of bullets above the ringing in his ears until the ping of metal striking metal sounded beside him, bullets thudding into the side of the truck from below, pinging off the tow rigging with little showers of sparks. 

Stiles swerved away as much as he was able, which wasn't much. The earth was starting to slant sharply, pitching him sideways in his seat as he struggled to stay on the relatively even ledge he was following. There was no room to maneuver and he was more or less a sitting duck up here.

Down below, Derek's arm stuck out the driver's side window and he fired his purloined hand gun blindly behind him. He had no hope of hitting anything like this, but it did have the salutary effect of forcing his pursuers to drop back a little, momentarily disrupting their attacks on both he and Stiles.  It wasn't enough, however.  They were gaining and Derek ran out of bullets all too quickly. 

Stiles saw the empty gun bounce out of his hand and fall away as Derek tried to adjust course. He appeared to be trying to vary his course to shake off his pursuers, but the valley he was in was narrowing, the sides rapidly becoming too steep to climb without losing precious speed.

From his higher vantage point, Stiles could now see the sloping valley narrowed off into a steep ravine dead ahead of them.  His current path would take him up along the top edge and then away into a neighboring valley, but Derek, trapped below, was going to have to go through the gorge. Stiles felt his stomach drop. The canyon looked alarmingly narrow.  It would drastically cut down or even eliminate Derek's ability to dodge his pursuer's fire. Even more worrisome was the incredibly steep grade.  The ground ahead didn't just slope downward, it _dropped_ away at an alarmingly sharp angle.  It wasn't a cliff, but it looked treacherous nevertheless.

Stiles knew his jeep pretty well and he had serious doubts about its ability to handle that sharp of an incline without losing control. To make matters worse the ground below appeared to consist of that awful mix of loose shale and gravel that had been giving him so much trouble earlier.

Stiles leaned on the horn and waved out the window, trying to signal Derek to change direction, but there was too much other noise and confusion and no way to make himself understood. Even if Derek _could_ have heard the warning, it was probably too late for him to change course. The valley walls were already so steep that it would slow him down too much to try to climb his way out.

Stiles dropped back into his seat, swerving to avoid another blast of gunfire from below. An outcropping of rocks blocking his path forced him to make a sharp turn which left him struggling for control of the slaloming truck. The maneuver took him out of range and out of sight for a minute and nearly sent the truck tumbling. When he finally regained control and came back into view of the valley below, he saw something that increased his alarm a hundred times over.

To his horror, there was a new, fourth car swooping down the steep valley across from him, having somehow circled around _ahead_ of Derek. Bouncing and slithering down the steep slope opposite him, it was moving in to cut Derek off right at the mouth of the ravine.  Caught in the middle of a large, blind turn, Derek would not be able to see the trap closing on him until it was too late. With the valley walls hemming him in on either side and his forward and rear exits cut off, he would have nowhere to go.

This had been the plan all along, Stiles realized. It was why they had all stayed on Derek and herded him this direction, into their trap. He was the priority target; they'd worry about whoever was with him afterwards. They weren't taking any more chances. They wanted Derek, and in a matter of moments, they were going to have him.

_No. No they **weren't**. It was **not** going to end this way. _

Yanking the steering wheel hard to the left, Stiles plunged down the hill, putting himself on a direct collision course with both the SUV speeding down the opposite slope and his own jeep as it rounded the corner.  The landscape was such that Stiles had a shorter trip down, hitting the valley floor at more or less the same time as the SUV coming from the other direction. The harshness of the terrain meant that neither driver could go _too_ fast without tearing up the underside of their cars, but it all _felt_ like it was happening incredibly quickly just the same.

The driver of the SUV applied his brakes sharply when confronted with the unexpected sight of the truck barreling towards him.

At the same moment, Derek cleared the turn and saw the two vehicles converging ahead of him.  He tried to brake, but it was way too late for that. His forward momentum, the loose gravel and the beginnings of the steep downgrade were against him, leaving him skidding forward towards the impending collision at full tilt. 

Stiles gripped the wheel, feeling like his teeth were being shaken right out of his head from the roughness of the ride as the protesting truck heaved itself forward.  He smashed head-on into the other car.  Because the SUV was trying to stop and Stiles wasn't, the crash took place off-center from the mouth of the ravine, the impact throwing the bad guy's car backwards and sending both vehicles into a spin that momentarily left the narrow path into the canyon clear. Momentum carrying him forward, Derek shot past them, the jeep skidding through the mouth of the ravine and hitting the sharp drop off beyond with all the control of a leaf trapped in the current of a mighty river.

The collision flung Stiles forcefully forward in his seat amid a shrieking of metal and shattering of glass. He was wearing his seatbelt, the old truck was thankfully not so old it didn't have airbags and the roughness of the terrain assured that although the crash _felt_ like it happened at 100 miles an hour, in reality neither car had been traveling at very high speeds when they collided. Those three things probably saved his life, but the impact was still significant.

Stiles' world exploded into a dizzying cacophony of confusing colors and sounds, overlaid with a searing wave of pain. Either hitting the airbag was a lot more painful than he'd have imaged, or he'd hit something else too. He didn't know, he retained no direct memories of the moment of the crash.

He didn't entirely black out, but he still must have lost a few moments of time because the next thing he was clearly aware of the two cars had halted their spinning slide, both of them now stationary and logged firmly in the narrow mouth of the canyon through which Derek had just passed.  There was blood running into Stiles' eyes and he felt like he was going to throw up.

The combined bulk of the two twisted wrecks were too big to enter the narrow canyon so they hung there, a mangle of twisted metal, broken glass, leaking oil, hissing radiators and blood.

The other three SUVS that had been pursuing Derek barreled around the corner.  They must have known they needed to be prepared to stop here, even if their trap had been successful, but apparently none of them had accounted for the lack of control brought on by the steep incline and loose footing, or perhaps they simply hadn't realized just how little space there was between the end of the turn and the mouth of the canyon.  Whatever the cause, they weren't braking fast enough and were forced to swerve off in crazy directions in an effort to keep from slamming into wreck. 

They didn't meet with much success.  The lead car managed to slow to a mere roll, but couldn't avoid plowing into the pile-up, t-boning the already damaged cars and tangling the mess even further.  The second car diverted to the side only to end grazing a boulder. Over-correcting, it struck the third car, not hard enough to do serious damage, but hard enough to bring them both to a stop.

Dripping blood from his head and pinned in his seat from the repeated crashes, Stiles craned his neck around painfully, trying to see down the canyon through the shattered passenger window. He blinked until his vision was clear enough to make out the receding form of his jeep sliding rapidly away down the steep incline.  _Sliding,_ not driving. The forward motion was not the choice of the driver. The jeep's backup lights were on and the uselessly spinning tires churned, spitting an angry spray of gravel. Derek had the car in reverse. He looked to be doing everything in his power to halt the forward motion and drive back _up_ the steep incline.  For all that he said he didn't trust Stiles, he was at this moment fighting desperately to go back for him, even though to do so was nothing but suicide. 

Thankfully, the steep grade that Stiles had feared was actually working in his favor now. It prevented Derek from being unforgivably idiotic.  While his Jeep seemed to be surviving the downward journey fairly well, Stiles was confident it was not physically capable of driving back _up_ that incline no matter what Derek may try to do.  He waved a sluggish, impatient arm at the window, trying to tell him to quit being stupid. _Go, go you big idiot. Go!_

There was no way Stiles could free himself of this tangle of metal either swiftly or un-aided and their pursuers were already swarming out of their damaged vehicles.  There was no escape for him now, but with the canyon bottled up like this and all their ready vehicles either damaged or at least blocked, this was the best possible chance Stiles could hope to give Derek. He hadn't _exactly_ planned it out this way, but if this was what he could get, he'd take it. 

The bad guys didn't know who he was. They'd probably want to find out a little about him, right?  They probably wouldn't just kill him on sight when it was clear he couldn't run and they could take their time, right? Not that that was actually a more attractive option, but Stiles was pretty low on optimistic outlooks on his current situation. Unknown hands tugged on twisted metal and the broken structure around him groaned.  Panic clawed at the back of his throat and he tried desperately to choke it back down. He struggled with his seatbelt, trying to get it to release, but the mechanism was smashed, holding him trapped in tight.

For a minute or two, no one was actually paying much attention to him.  Several people were trying to extract those trapped in the car he'd hit while others climbed up and over the wreck, perhaps with some idea of giving chase on foot. Kate, who unfortunately had not been in one of the more seriously injured vehicles, was with this second group. By the time they made it over the wreckage, however, the jeep was gone. It had disappeared out of sight into the twisting canyon and everyone present knew they hadn't a hope of catching up on foot. 

Swearing, Kate climbed angrily back over the wreck and dropped to the ground near Stiles, turning to regard him coolly through the twisted remains of the driver side window frame.

Stiles stopped struggling uselessly with the seatbelt and swallowed, trying to meet her eyes unconcernedly.

_They want to find Derek. They want to know what you know. They won't kill you out of hand. They won't kill you out of hand._ Stiles tried desperately to convince himself of that as he was pinned by the woman's disturbingly shark-like gaze. It was the first time he'd seen her up close. She was surprisingly pretty, beautiful even, despite the smear of blood on her cheek and the way her long blond hair was mussed. She smiled at him, but there was no warmth in it. Her eyes were hard and her expression pinched with frustration.

"Well aren't you the cutest bloody thing I've ever found in a wrecked car," she drawled conversationally, her mocking voice displaying her control by betraying little of the anger Stiles could see in those piercing eyes. "You really shouldn't have made being _road kill_ a life ambition, sweet cheeks. I could think of so many better uses for you."

Woozy from head trauma, blood loss and barely repressed terror, Stiles grinned a bloody, impudent smile at her.  "I think I make very good road kill," he slurred with sarcastic defensiveness, then brightened as another thought pinged through his spinning mind. "You, shall not pass!" he mumbled, doing his best Gandalf impression.  It wasn't all that witty, but he giggled anyway and perhaps there was just a touch of hysteria in the sound. Maybe more than a touch.  

Kate grinned back at him and raised her gun, pressing the muzzle against his forehead. Stiles instinctively closed his eyes, his trapped, injured body starting to shake. 

_Okay, maybe they **will** kill you out of hand.  _


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience everyone! Sorry for the long time since the last update, but hopefully they'll start being a little more regular now. 
> 
> Please note the updated tags / warnings for the story. This chapter is very whumpy and hard on poor Stiles. There are elements that could be seen as kind of non con. It's relating to torture, not sex, but please don't read if such things are triggery to you. I've put more specific notes about what's involved at the end of the chapter, if you want to skip down and read those first in order to decide.

Derek stared at his hands, resting on the steering wheel. A slowly flashing neon sign in the window of the ramshackle dive of a bar behind which he was parked bathed the dashboard in an unnatural, intermittent pink light, broken by stretches of shadowy darkness.

_Pink._

_Dark._

_Pink._

_Dark._

Derek had no notion how long he'd been sitting there, watching the lurid light show, because he wasn't really watching it. His eyes observed, but his mind took in nothing. Not the grimy, trash strewn alleyway. Not the squat brick buildings around him, the blacked out windows or lighted signs. Not the darkness of the night, nor the well-worn interior of the vehicle in which he sat.

He'd spent days restoring this car, nursing it back to health. Now he needed to abandon it here where it was sure to be stripped and disassembled like a wounded caribou on the savannah. It was the safest thing to do; the best way to not leave a trail.

He'd finally made the highway and driven straight past Gold Ridge, not stopping until evening shadows were lengthening and he'd been almost literally passing out behind the wheel, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. He'd stolen a few hours of exhausted, fitful slumber in the back of a sparsely used strip mall parking lot before waking in darkness and taking off again. Now, he was running low on gas. He could get more, he had cash, but it was dangerous to hold onto the jeep any longer. His pursers knew it and would be searching. 

Years on the run had taught Derek what he needed to do in this kind of situation. Still in possession of the money Stiles had paid him yesterday, Derek was in a fairly decent position as far as available cash went. Now he just needed to get out there and find a car to steal. Preferably some junker that wouldn't be missed right away. He'd drive to another town and repeat the procedure, changing directions and car-hopping his way along until the trail became too muddled for anyone to follow. 

The sooner he got started, the better. He needed to keep moving ... and yet, here he was. Still sitting motionless, watching the dashboard alternate between gritty twilight and garish fuchsia with eyes that didn't see. He felt completely numb. Leaden. Useless. Like a machine in which some critical, essential part had broken.

The thought of abandoning the jeep was strangely painful. Derek had learned long ago not to get attached to things because they were all transitory and there could be nothing he wasn't willing to abandon at a moment's notice. So perhaps it wasn't really the thought of leaving the car that hurt like a jagged blade was being shoved between his ribs and rotated. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd already abandoned its owner. 

Derek's head drooped a little further forward.

_Pink._

_Dark._

He told himself thinking like this was no good. There was nothing he could have done. He'd tried to go back but it hadn't been possible. It had been all he could do to try to guide the careening jeep safely downhill through the narrow canyon and not end up smashed into one of the steep walls.  By the time the ground leveled off and he finally regained control of the vehicle, it was already far too late for anything but regret.

Stiles was probably dead before he cleared the bottom of the canyon and even if he wasn't, even if Derek had been _able_ to go back for him... what could he possibly have done? He was hopelessly outnumbered and wasn't even armed anymore.

He could do nothing. Just like always. 

Derek bitterly told himself that it was still entirely possible that his regret was being wasted; that Stiles had been one of the enemy for whom he should feel no grief... but his heart wasn't listening. It simply no longer rang true to him and all the cold, hard logic in the world wasn't making him feel better. 

Derek's weary gaze cast numbly about the car. Everything on the front seat had ended up in the foot well during all the earlier jostling.  He saw Stiles' wallet and credit cards strewn across the stained carpet, along with objects he only vaguely recognized as the wallet and cell phone parts that Stiles had taken off the guard back at the station. The back seat was dominated by a jumble of blankets, pillows, clothes and canned goods. On the floor, he saw the edge of a familiar shoebox peeking out from beneath a pair of jeans and his throat felt suddenly three sizes too tight. 

_Oh God.  Stiles had grabbed his memento box from the station._ Those odds and ends were the one bit of attachment he had allowed himself. It was his past bundled up into a few tangible memories; a collection of fragments from his long forgotten childhood and his time on the road with Laura, mementos of the loved ones he'd never see again. It was all he had left of his family. In the heat of the moment and his urgency to flee earlier he'd not remembered it, but Stiles had. Stiles had saved it for him.

Derek swallowed with difficulty. It felt like there wasn't enough room in his aching throat for his vocal chords, let alone saliva or air. He didn't understand. He didn't know what to think anymore. Stiles had said he could explain everything, but now he'd never have the chance to tell that story and Derek was left grasping at broken shards that didn't fit together. 

The idea that Stiles had been working with this other Argent, Allison, in direct competition to Kate, that made sense.  Stiles risking his neck for Derek when he could easily have taken off and saved himself, that _didn't_ make sense. Was it possible he was that dedicated to trying to make sure Kate wasn't the one to take Derek out?  No. That didn't track at all.  Maybe Derek was stupid and he simply couldn't see the complex web being woven around him, but none of this made sense anymore.

Stiles had come back for him.

Kate and the others hadn't even been chasing _Stiles._ He could have run. He'd had had the high ground, he could have just kept going. But he hadn't.  Instead, he had plowed head-first into an auto wreck to prevent Derek from being cornered and slow down his pursuers. Derek couldn't find the ulterior motive in that. The young man had _sacrificed_ _himself_ to let Derek escape. There was no explaining that away as anything other than what it was.  However it had all started between them, whether it had been innocent chance or calculated manipulation, whatever it was they shared had clearly become real enough to Stiles that he would do something so incredibly brave and so devastatingly foolish. 

Derek had no idea how to deal with that. He had no idea how to process any of this, much less make sense of his own wildly confused and conflicted feelings.

Spotting Stiles' cell phone in the cup holder beside him, he reached over and picked it up. It was turned off. Idle, morbid curiosity made him thumb it on.  Wallowing in a past that he couldn't change was likely to bring nothing but pain, but Derek needed to know. He needed to try to make sense of _something._  

_Dark._

The carrier logo appeared on the mobile's screen with an annoyingly cheerful little flourish of sound before disappearing, replaced by Stiles' home screen. A bevy of notification icons appeared on the status bar, informing Derek that Stiles had 8 new voicemails, 47 unread texts, and 100+ twitter notifications. Moving as if in a dream, Derek worked his way through the notifications. All the voicemails and most of the text messages were from someone named Scott. The texts all seemed to be assorted variations on the theme of _"hey, checking in to see how you're doing, please let me know you're okay."_   As far as Derek could tell, Stiles had not responded.

The twitter notifications were a lot more varied and made much less sense. Derek wasn't entirely sure how the whole social media thing worked, or what it meant that _"so and so had mentioned you",_ but the list of comments that came up when he tapped the notification were both strange and disturbing. Some seemed to be addressed to Stiles while others were more as if they were talking about him or taking part in some conversation the context of which was missing.  They ranged from irate accusations along the lines of _"you're so fucking disgusting idk how you live with yourself"_ to salacious propositions which went from the comparatively mild _"hey if you're that desperate I'd be happy to give it to you"_ to extremely graphic descriptions of body parts and sexual acts that made Derek's face flush. After the first few dozen he quickly stopped looking at the tweets. He didn't understand what it all meant, but it made him feel kind of ill. 

He didn't listen to the voice mails, but scrolling through and looking at the dates, Derek saw that it looked like nothing on the phone had been viewed, no texts sent and no outgoing calls made since the day before Stiles showed up at the station.  Maybe you could tamper with those kind of things, but honestly, he just couldn't muster up enough suspicion anymore to consider that likely.  He was beginning to feel desolately certain now that Stiles had been telling the truth about the phone. Maybe he really _hadn't_ realized he'd misplaced it in his own trunk. Derek hadn't known Stiles very long, but even so it was something he could easily see him doing, now that he stopped to think about it with a cooler head.

He still didn't understand the rest of it - the gas card with the Argent name, the notebooks and tactical gear and all that, but whatever the explanations, if Stiles hadn't been using his phone then there really was no way he could have betrayed Derek and everything else crumbled around that point.

_Stiles hadn't betrayed him._

Gripping the phone tight and resting his arms on the wheel, Derek bowed his head, eyes burning as silent tears trailed down his cheeks.  Throat so tight it threatened to choke him, he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing bitterly that he could take back the awful things he'd said and done. Wishing he'd never met Stiles only to get him killed, too. He'd thought after Laura he didn't have anyone left to lose, but life, it seemed, could always find new ways to take from you. 

 

* * *

 

Stiles woke to a number of unpleasant realizations.  Firstly, that he was, in fact, still alive; a realization only made unpleasant by those which followed.  He was alive, completely naked, and tied in an upright position to something hard and latticed that was digging into his butt and shoulder blades. Squinting and blinking sluggishly until his vision cleared enabled him to add even more disturbing details to his situation.

He was in what appeared to be some kind of large, old, industrial basement or boiler room. Ancient pipes and duct work covered the ceiling like giant, twisting worms, damp and encrusted with decades' worth of dirt and rust.  He was bound by his wrists to the sturdy grating of what looked like the outside grillwork of one of those old fashioned elevator cages. Sturdy nylon cords secured his hands spread apart and above his head, leaving his slumped body dangling.

Kate was half a dozen paces away from him. Perched with one hip on the edge of an old work table, she watched him wake up.

Stiles blinked a couple of times to see if she were a bad dream he could make go away, but no such luck. With the return of consciousness, came an awareness of the burning in his shoulders and the painful numbness of his hands. With a soft groan, he managed to get his feet under him.  Straightening his legs, he pushed upward until his hands were almost level with his head. That took the strain off his arms, but only served to make him aware of everywhere _else_ that he hurt. He felt like one giant bruise.

Licking his lips, Stiles tried to reconcile his current surroundings with his last conscious memories from the canyon. He was more than a little surprised to not be dead. He remembered Kate holding the gun on him.  He didn't remember her knocking him out, although that was probably what had happened, judging by the ungodly pounding in his head. Of course, that could just be from the crash, he supposed. He assumed that was what was to blame for most of the pain he was currently experiencing.  Looking down he could see the beginnings of an angry bruise forming horizontally across his chest from where the seatbelt had caught him. There were scratches on his face, neck and left arm that he couldn't account for, which he assumed were also from the collision.

Fortunately, as far as he could tell, nothing seemed to be broken, but he hurt all over. His neck felt like he had ribbons of fire threaded through his muscles and his ears burned all the way down the sides of his throat. He felt like hell, and his surroundings were not very encouraging. He was getting seriously godfather-esque vibes from the whole set-up, and he was really very attached to all his body parts.  _Literally._

Kate slid off the table and sauntered over to him. He noticed for the first time that she was wearing tight dark jeans, boots and a short leather jacket over a longer dark red shirt.  He recognized the subtle, but telling bulge of a shoulder holster under her jacket.

"I'd ask if you enjoyed your nap ... but I don't really care," Kate said with a smile that managed to be both disarming and disturbing. She stopped a foot or two away from Stiles, regarding him. "I'm sure this," she gestured vaguely towards his body. "Is not really where you'd like to be right now.  And this," she gestured around the room. "Is not really where I'd like to be right now either. So, as much as I would enjoy playing with you, what do you say we both keep this as brief and to the point as possible?"

Stiles nodded as shallowly as he could to keep his head from toppling off. "Sure," he croaked amiably. "Brief is good." _Except for the part where I'm probably dead as soon as you have whatever it is you want._

Stiles' gaze darted around the room. It was lit by a few bulbs set high up in the ceiling, the level of light inadequate to the space. Large pools of shadow obscured the edges of the area, but he could see that there were at least three other men in here with them. Two were across the room near a door, weapons visible, but seeming more interested in the cigarettes they were smoking than in him. Either they were standing guard or taking a smoke break. Another was closer at hand, behind Kate and off to the right a little. Stiles didn't recognize any of them particularly. He wondered if Kate was intentionally shutting Yates out of this discussion, or if he was simply off pursing his own leads. Certainly, Stiles knew she'd had more men with her back in the canyon. Maybe they were still out looking for Derek.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, battling nausea. He tried not to worry about Derek because there was nothing more he could do for him. He tried not to think too much about his own situation for the same reason. His skin felt clammy and everything felt vaguely unreal, even the fear hollowing out the pit of his stomach.

"Good boy," Kate praised, caressing his cheek and the side of his neck with a casual intimacy that made Stiles' skin crawl.  "Why don't you start by telling me about yourself."

Stiles regarded her warily and cocked his head slightly to the side. "You mean, like, whether I like long walks on the beach and drinking Piña Coladas in the rain?" he asked innocently.

Kate grinned. Her hand dropped to his shoulder and she squeezed, her thumb digging harshly and purposefully into the darkening purplish red bruise cutting across his collarbone.

Pain flared and Stiles gave a startled cry which he managed to strangle off into a hiss. The bruise under her hand was both tender and raw.

Kate didn't let up, digging her thumb back and forth and making Stiles squirm.  "No, I mean more along the lines of who are you, where are you from and how do you know Derek Hale?" she said calmly, as if they were having a pleasant conversation. "I would, of course, be very interested if you happen to know where Derek is headed, or where he might run to next, but I have a feeling you're not going to want to tell me that right away. So, baby steps, hm?"

Stiles realized that Kate knew nothing about him, not even his name. He had been carrying nothing on him when he was captured that would help her in this regard.  He'd left his phone, his wallet and everything else that might identify him in his Jeep. The only way they would be able to ID him without his assistance was if someone had had the forethought to record the license numbers of the cars parked at the station when they arrived. Given what Derek had said about these people, he unfortunately suspected that if they needed to, they were probably capable of accessing DMV records through one means or another.  

It seemed too large of an oversight to hope that they _hadn't_ made note of his jeep's plates.  It was likely they simply hadn't had time to get someone to run it yet and thought that getting information out of him would be quicker and easier. Even so, Stiles hoped against hope that they _had_ somehow overlooked that detail, because if they had, then there was a chance he might be able to take his identity to the grave with him.

These people had killed Derek's entire family; even a little child who couldn't possibly have been a threat to them. Collateral damage was their middle name. He could tell them that his was a chance encounter with Derek and nothing more, but there was no guarantee they would believe him. There was no reason to think that, with no other leads to follow, they _wouldn't_ go to his home, or his former school, just to see if Derek would turn up in any of those places. There was no reason to think they would consider his loved ones innocent and completely clueless of the whole affair, even if they were.  

His freakily coincidental connection to Allison and her father would only make everything even more suspicious.  Derek had taken one look and been certain he was lying, that he was up to something and there was more to his story. Kate would probably come to the same conclusion.  

If they knew who he was, they could easily go after his father, or Scott, or anyone else close to him who might know something, either for information or simply to eliminate potential threats. They seemed to have a decidedly scorched earth policy when it came to people who might know their business and Stiles simply could not risk it. There was no way he was pointing Kate and her band of killers in the direction of what little he had in the way of family and friends. _No way in hell._

Kate's touch brought Stiles back from the slightly dazed reverie he hadn't realized he was sinking into. She'd left off digging into his most recent bruises and was stroking the side of his neck again, her attention caught on slightly older bruises of a different nature.

"Mmm," she purred with amusement. "Nice hickies, kid. Derek give you those?  That why you were so all fired ready to throw yourself in front of a bus for him? He your _boyfriend,_ little man?"

Stiles gave an incremental shrug, tilting his head as much away from Kate as he could. He would have liked to make a snappy rejoinder, but what exactly Derek was to him was a little bit of a sore topic. He didn't really know, to be honest, and now he was probably never going to get the chance to find out.

Kate caught his chin in her hand and pulled his face towards her in an iron grip. " _Name_ ," she demanded, clearly wearying of getting no answers.

"Kate," Stiles responded immediately.  That earned him a blow to the side of his throbbing head that left his ear ringing and the room spinning around him. 

" _Your_ name," she clarified.

Stiles shook his head gingerly, working his jaw and making a face as he tried to shake out the sting of the blow. "How do you know that's _not_ my name?"

Kate was not amused. She dug her thumb into the bruise across his chest again, jabbing and twisting viciously. "This isn't a hard question, kid." 

Stiles tipped his head back against the grating behind him, biting his lower lip and clenching his fists as the pain brought tears to his eyes. "That's what _you_ think, but see, _someone_ must have hit me over the head a little too hard, 'cause I've got total amnesia going on here. Sorry."

Kate gave him a look that clearly said she didn't believe him, but Stiles hadn't expected she would.

"Really?  Well then, guess maybe we need to try to jar those memories back to the surface, don't we?" she said smoothly. Stepping back, she nodded to the man loitering nearby. "Ames, why don't you see if you can help our little friend recollect a few things?"

The man in question came over promptly. He was big and built like a mountain.  Stiles looked up, and up ... and up, and swallowed.

There was no posturing or bravado-laced intimidation tactics. The man, Ames, didn't glower, smirk or even threaten. His face was a mask of calm, slightly bored professionalism as he plowed a solid fist into Stiles' unprotected gut with enough force to make the whole elevator cage rattle.

Stiles gasped, muscles contracting, wrists involuntarily jerking against the ropes binding him as his body tried in vain to double over around the shocking blaze of pain. He'd been punched before, but prior experience didn't make it hurt any less. The man hit him again and Stiles struggled for oxygen, stomach starting to heave.  A blow to his face sent his head banging back into the metal grillwork behind him. He tasted blood, flashes of light and inky patches of darkness swimming before him.

Kate stood behind Ames. She ran her hands across the outside of his shoulders with playful delicateness.  "Try not to break anything, _yet,_ " she instructed.  "We may be at this for a while. And avoid his head. I want him conscious ... and besides, he's a cutie, it would be a shame to mess that pretty face up too soon." 

Stiles had a feeling the words were partially for his benefit. If she were trying to scare him, she needn't have bothered. He was already terrified. _This was going to hurt so bad._ He didn't know how he was going to deal with it, only that he didn't have a choice.

Ames was obviously no stranger to this type of persuasion and knew how to do his job well. He beat Stiles methodically, going for maximum pain with minimum damage. Clearly, the goal was simply to make him hurt. With Stiles already battered and bruised from the car accident and everything that had come before, it didn't take much to accomplish that goal. Ames looked like a thug, but he didn't simply pound the boy mindlessly. He was, unfortunately, more effective than that. He proved adept at finding all the worst spots, the places that made Stiles tremble and break out into a cold, clammy sweat when pressure was applied. Then the big man would prod, twist, jab and punch until he made Stiles scream.

Kate seemed to enjoy that. She was doing something over by the table she'd been lounging against before, but she looked over frequently to watch the proceedings, especially when Stiles got loud. She didn't bother asking him any questions, apparently confident that he knew what she wanted and would give it to her when he was ready for this to end.

Stiles was _very_ ready for it to end, but he couldn't give her what she wanted.  The truth was, there wasn't much he actually _could_ tell Kate that would be of any use to her. She probably knew just as much about Derek as he did, maybe more. Even if he betrayed his family by telling her about himself, it wouldn't help her find Derek. _Not that he was going to do that. Nope. Not happening._

Stiles wanted to believe he would never tell her where Derek might go or what he might do now, even if he _had_ known those things, but the fact remained that he _didn't_ know, and maybe that was all for the best. He wished he really did have amnesia. Wished there was nothing he could say that would hurt anyone. He didn't know what his own breaking point might be. He didn't want to know, but he was probably going to find out. He'd never considered himself very strong, but stubborn? He could do stubborn. He hoped to God that would be enough.

After what felt like a small eternity, Kate called Ames off. Stiles hung from the ropes at his wrists again, his knees long since buckled under the force of the beating. His chest heaved, his abused body throbbing like ... well, like he'd just been used as a punching bag, which he had, so no big surprise there.

Mindful of Kate's instructions, Ames had kept most of his attentions focused center mass, meaning that Stiles' torso had absorbed most of the beating. The teen felt like his ribs were broken, although they probably weren't. His head was swimming from the pain and the idea that this had been in any way a "careful" application of force only made him fear what it would be like when they _stopped_ being careful. He sobbed for breath, mind frantically searching for some way out, but escape seemed impossible.

Groaning and sucking his lower lip between his teeth Stiles twisted his hands and clumsily grabbed hold of the grillwork to which his wrists were bound. Holding on with shaking fingers, he painfully leveraged himself back to his feet. He could barely feel his hands and his muscles were screaming. He was afraid if he got hit many more times while he was dangling, his shoulder joints would dislocate.

His lower lip was cut and swollen, but Stiles worried it between his teeth anyway, using the small pain as a mental distraction from the much worse pain elsewhere. _"You're James Bond,"_ he told himself. _"You're CIA. You're Seal Team Six. You've been captured in enemy territory. You'll never give them a thing."_  The fantasy helped, a little, but the truth was he was neither spy nor soldier. He'd never been trained for this. He was a teenager who didn't want to die and desperately wanted to stop being hurt.

Stiles blinked his eyes rapidly, staring up at the ceiling and trying to deal, because he was not going to cry. He was _not._

A sudden, shocking slap of cold water hitting his body jerked his attention back down towards his captors. He yelped and spluttered in surprise, the cold water raising goose bumps all over and making his bruised muscles tighten up, painful shivers wracking through him.

He blinked through the water running down his face in time to see Kate setting a bucket down on the floor beside the table. On top of the table, she'd laid out an impressive array of frightening looking objects. Shiny clamps, hammers, pliers, knives, a blow torch, cutting sheers ... it was like a window display for a ritzy Serial Killer Boutique catering to sadists.

Stiles couldn't breathe. He wrenched his eyes away, body shivering harder. He knew she'd wanted him to see. She wanted him to be afraid, that's why she'd laid everything out like that. It was all mind games and he hated that it was working.

Battling panic, he ran random song lyrics in his head to distract himself, focusing on remembering the words and the melody rather than on the things making him afraid. It was a calming trick he'd learned when dealing with anxiety attacks as a kid. It didn't help much right now, but he was desperate enough to try anything.

_"I was lost but now I am found._   
_A line was crossed, a vessel run aground._   
_The boy has gone, let's grieve and let him go._   
_He left at dawn, but it's a new day don't you know?"_

Kate's gaze fixed on him, a cruel smile playing around her lips. She picked something up off the table and Stiles tried to think about the song, tried to recall the last time he remembered hearing it _._

_He was driving in his jeep with Scott and Allison in the back, returning from a party. Scott was drumming along with the slow percussion line against the back of Stiles' seat while Allison was joining in on all the_ oooohhhooo's _in the chorus._

It was so strange to think that the woman looking at him with those shark-like eyes was related to Allison. He just couldn't comprehend it. 

Kate casually reached over to fiddle with the knobs on what looked like a control box of some kind that was sitting on the table beside her. Stiles noticed wires snaking downward from the box to what looked like a really large car battery or small generator of some sort on the floor below and his mind hiccupped. He'd apparently watched way too many movies, because he understood what he was seeing. The fear roiling in his gut shifted and tightened, like cold snakes moving about in his insides. 

"Really?" he croaked incredulously before he could stop himself. "Really, with the car batteries and nipple clamps and stuff? People actually do that? What's next, water boarding?"

Kate grinned at him and held out her hand so he could see what she was holding. It looked like a long metal wand with a bronze tip and an insulated handle. A lengthy loop of wire ran from the handle of the wand to the control box on the table.

"Actually, this is called a _picana_ ," she informed, sauntering closer and letting him get a good look at the unpleasant looking instrument. "Same principle, but it's a little more refined and flexible than just hooking somebody up to jumper cables."  She ran the tip of the wand under his chin and down the center of his chest.  The metal felt cool against his wet skin.  

"The beauty of this little gem," she continued conversationally, "is that unlike just applying straight up electrical current from a battery or wall socket, this instrument is calibrated to be high voltage, low current.  That basically means it hurts like hell, but is significantly less likely to accidentally kill the person it's being used on."  Her smile widened, turning predatory as she tapped the rod against his cheek. Behind her, Stiles saw Ames move over to the control box on the table. "Think of it like a cattle prod, only made for humans. Bottom line for you, sweetheart, is that I can use this on you for a nice, long time, and it won't stop your heart. You'll just _wish_ it would."

Stiles swallowed, his mouth feeling as dry and rough as sandpaper.  "Oh," he responded, blinking rapidly. "Lovely. N-nice to see people still take pride in craftsmanship, I guess. You pick that up in Sadistic Psycho Asshole Training 101?"

Kate's hard eyes glittered, as if his sarcasm and spirit amused her. "Bolivia, actually," she responded, giving Ames a small nod before flicking the wand down and pressing the tip against his right nipple. 

This time the instrument was live, and instead of cool metal, Stiles felt a searing, blinding streak of white-hot agony jolt through him. He screamed involuntarily, unprepared for how very badly that hurt. His muscles contracted spasmodically, body arching with the current.

Kate pulled the wand away after a moment and he sagged, gasping and twitching like a fish flopping about in the bottom of a boat. He had never known pain like this. Never imagined anything could hurt _that_ bad.

"See?  Nice," Kate said with a contented smirk. Her eyes said that this wasn't just a job for her, that she _enjoyed_ it. She enjoyed watching her victim fall apart, enjoyed the power of holding his body and life in her hands, able to do whatever she wanted with him.

Without warning, she pressed the rod to his other nipple, tearing another cry from him as Stiles' body snapped taut with agony.  He clenched his jaw, biting his lips together, but he couldn't stop the raw sound that ripped from his throat. Tears blurred his eyes. He tried to hold them back, but he couldn't do that either.

"The way it works," she said, continuing her casual tutorial on the torture instrument as she stroked it slowly up and down his bruised stomach, shocking him without reprieve. "Is that Ames over there controls the voltage, while I decide where I want to use it."

She traced the outline of Stiles rib cage with deliberate strokes, an artist of pain painting a masterpiece of fire and unbelievable agony across his skin. The longer she kept the tip of the instrument in contact with his body, the faster Stiles felt himself unraveling under the onslaught. He couldn't stop screaming.  Tears of pain ran freely down his cheeks.   _Oh God... oh God, he couldn't do this. It hurt so bad. So damn bad._

"We'll keep the voltage low to start, shall we, sweetheart?  Work you up nice and slow. You're really so pretty like this. So fucking gorgeous, I could do you for hours. _But..._ " she finally pulled the prod away, allowing him to sag, leaving Stiles trembling and sobbing for breath. "Business before pleasure." She lifted his drooping chin with her fingers, making him look at her with watering, pain glazed eyes.

Badly on edge, Stiles started at her touch, jerking when he felt the now warm tip of the picana stroking the inside of his thigh. Ames must have flipped off the voltage because there was no current flowing through the tool right now. Tremors ran across Stiles' skin and shuddered down his legs anyway.

Kate smiled at his reaction, eliciting a new spike of hatred for her in Stiles' quaking gut.

"Don't be difficult," she murmured coaxingly. "Admittedly, it will be a lot of fun for me, but not so much fun for you. Why don't you just tell me who you are, and what you know."

"I-I don't know anything," Stiles gasped between shuddering breaths.  "I know you're going to think I'm lying, but I'm not. I met Derek like, just a few days ago. Like four or five or ... I don't know, less than a week, I think. Or maybe right around that." He was having trouble thinking straight. "I didn't even know his real name until, like, yesterday. I don't know where he's going now or what he'll do. I _don't_. I can't help you find him even if I wanted to. Which I don't," he added, unable to help himself despite the dubious wisdom of such a statement.  "But that's beside the point, because I _can't,_ anyway."

It wasn't an unreasonable assertion, but Kate didn't look ready to be convinced. "Mm," she said skeptically. "Maybe, maybe not. We'll see. What about you? Who are you? Where are you from?" The inactive wand dug threateningly into the soft, sensitive flesh of his inner thigh.

Stiles started to shake despite himself.  "I'm nobody," he whispered, voice cracking just a little.

Kate gave Ames a small nod and pain exploded through Stiles' body again. He twisted, bucking in agony as Kate ran the prod slowly up and down the inside of one thigh and then the other. It felt like someone was holding a branding iron to his skin, only worse, because the pain wasn't merely localized, it traveled outward, electricity burning across his nerves and making him shriek.

It seemed to go on forever, and maybe he whited-out a little because the next thing he knew the prod was gone and he was being hit with another slap of cold water. He wasn't sure if it was meant to keep him alert and clear headed, or to keep him wet because the torture device worked better with the added conductivity of the water on his skin. It didn't really matter. Naked and soaked, a freezing cold was settling into his bones while his skin flamed with painful heat everywhere the rod had touched him. He couldn't stop shaking. Or crying.

"I'm trying to make this easy for you, kid," Kate's voice broke through his agonized haze. "Come on, give me _something._ "  

"W-why should I?" Stiles almost chattered, his voice rattling with the spasms that were continuing to wrack through him now even when he wasn't being shocked. He spit, trying to clear bloody saliva from his mouth before he choked. His throat wasn't working quite right and it felt like he'd forgotten how to swallow. "I-it doesn't matter and you're not going to b-believe me anyway.  You're not going to stop until you've h-hurt me enough to be sure I'm n-not lying, and then you're just going to k-kill me anyway. Why should I g-give you squat?" Despite the tremble in his voice, the boy's wet, pain-filled eyes snapped with a certain amount of undimmed fire. He was hurt and afraid, but also angry.

Stiles felt his reasoning was pretty sound, even if he really just didn't want her thinking that he was trying to hide anything with his silence, since... well, he kind of _was_. Let her think this was about defiance. In a way, it was. He spat again, more deliberately this time. "F-forgive me if I don't feel like m-making your life any easier."

Kate chuckled and glanced over at Ames. "We've got ourselves a real stubborn one.  Why don't you crank the power up a little?" She turned back to Stiles, waving the prod hypnotically back and forth in front of him. "I suppose I can see your logic, kid, and you're not wrong, but what you fail to realize is that making my life easier, makes your life easier."

She pressed the live rod against his jaw, right beneath his ear and Stiles literally saw stars. The world became nothing but agony. He didn't even realize he was screaming until she pulled it away and he found his throat aching like someone had reached down it and pulled out his lungs.   

"Cooperate and I'll give you break," she promised in a husky, almost seductive tone, tracing the rod around his nipples again. It was starting to leave bright, angry electric burns across his pale skin. "I'll let you rest a little before we continue. You'd like that, wouldn't you?  So, come on, handsome, spill for me," she purred, leaning intimately close. She held the rod suspended a bare inch above the sensitive skin right beneath his navel. "Start small. Give me a name."

Stiles panted through grit teeth. There was nothing small about his name. His real name was so stupidly unique that, _if_ she didn'taccuse him of making it up, she'd probably have no trouble finding out everything about him in a matter of hours.  His real name would lead her right to Beacon Hills. Right to his father. His father who was good friends with Chris Argent and would never see it coming if that friendship was betrayed. Stiles was still heavily conflicted in his own mind about what role Mr. Argent did or didn't play in any of this. He wanted to believe Chris was out of his family's business, that he was the person Stiles had thought he knew, but honestly, he really didn't know what to believe at this point. Maybe they were like those movie mobsters, seeming to live normal lives until suddenly somebody woke up with a horse head in their bed. He was starting to understand Derek's paranoia.

"Who are you?" Kate pressed, clearly hoping that once she got him to start spilling his guts he wouldn't stop. Stiles could see she had experience. She'd tortured people before; probably killed a few, too. He sincerely doubted Derek's sister was the only body to her name. He'd just been spouting insults earlier, but he now felt sure this woman really _was_ a psychopath ... or sociopath, or whatever, he always got those mixed up. Point was, she was screwed up in dangerous ways.

Rage bubbled hot in his stomach, mixing with a sickening sense of inevitability.  "I'm fucking Batman," he spit at her. "That's who I am."

The unspeakable pain of the picana burning a slow trail from his navel down towards his cock made him scream helplessly. His voice was already starting to go, his throat feeling raw and swollen from all the strain on his vocal cords.

Kate let up just before reaching his genitals. The tip of the prod dipped a little, hovering just inches away from his scrotum. Stiles wanted desperately to shrink from her, to protect himself, but there was nowhere for him to go and nothing he could do. The threat was clear, as was the reason she'd been avoiding using the wand on him down here until now. This was about fear as much as pain. Her tactics were designed to bully him into submission, but he was on to her.

Hurting and terrified though he was, Stiles firmly told himself that despite what she said, nothing he did would really make a difference. She _might_ ease off now, but that would only prolong this ordeal and delay the inevitable.  Whether it was now, or later, they'd go down this road eventually. She'd never be sure he'd told her everything until she'd hurt him in every possible way she knew how, if for no other reason than that she clearly enjoyed this cruel game far too much. She was going to take him apart, piece by piece, no matter what he did or didn't tell her.

Ironically, that macabre thought helped him hang onto his resolve. If he believed the torture was inevitable, then that made giving in to her demands pointless and much less attractive. So, he screwed his eyes shut, and believed it was inevitable.

"Want to try that again?" Kate demanded.

Stiles didn't open his eyes. He tried to not think about where he was and what was happening; tried to detach and hide in his mind, in the past, in the fleeting, flutter of images conjured up by his panicky brain. _Derek's eyes and the taste of his lips. His father's smile. How safe he felt wrapped up in one of his hugs..._ Stiles tried to remember those things, but it was hard; his injuries were throbbing and he was so scared.

_He was going to die, and it was going to hurt unimaginably._ As much as Stiles wanted to mentally escape to somewhere better, he couldn't seem to hold onto anything but that one thought. The ice water pumping through his veins scattered his already easily scattered thoughts and made the memories he tried to lose himself in slip through his fingers like sand. 

_"And vanity, it falls in feathery folds,_   
_but she bites like loveless eyes,_   
_and with her belly full, she called this 'rite of passage',_   
_it was the longest night of my life..."_

Stiles again fell back on his trick of trying to remember specific strings of words and passages as a way to focus and settle his often easily distracted mind. He forced himself to not to think about the pain and concentrate instead on remembering the more difficult and obscure lines of the song he'd been recalling earlier. The words came back to him slower and less clearly now, the verses disjointed and out of order.  

_"Something's wrong, something's wrong, when it all remains the same.  
So face the fire, come into your name." _

He tried to burrow into the tentative memory the song brought back to him. _Don't think about Kate. Don't think about the basement or the pain. He wasn't there. He was back in the car again with Scott and Allison, on a night when the future still seemed bright and open ahead of him and the biggest worries in his life were history exams and whether he was buzzed enough that he shouldn't be driving._

"Come on, sweetheart, you don't want to do this," Kate purred, cutting into his thoughts and threatening to break down his fragile wall of mental separation.  

Stiles sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, water dripping slowly from the bottom of his chin, muscles shivering beneath pale, abused skin. "Go to hell," he rasped deliberately through his teeth, his voice hoarse and harsh. It felt good to say it. He knew he'd pay, but for a moment, it felt good.

Kate's eyebrows ticked up a little. "You know, I kind of like you, kid," she complimented with a cruel smile. "You _really_ know how to ask for it."

_Night air flowing in through the windows. The radio cranked up to blasting. Allison laughing and slapping at Scott's chest as he playfully tipped his head back against the seat and howled, adding a theatrical touch when they hit the chorus._

_"In the company of wolves I sat in silence, observant and afraid._   
_It was there, with their eyes like glowing embers,_   
_the man you see was made."_

Stiles' trembling lips formed the words soundlessly, like a mantra, unable to remember anything other than the chorus now as it tumbled frantically through his brain on repeat. _"In the company of wolves I sat in silence..."_

Kate pressed the wicked device she was holding to him, flooding electricity into one of the most nerve-rich and vulnerable areas of his body. She traced circles against his balls and around his cock, burning cruel and ruthless swaths of fire across his most sensitive and delicate areas of flesh.

The memory shattered; the protective illusion ripping away to leaving Stiles naked, exposed and alone. People often spoke of floating outside their body at times like this, but he felt trapped in his; imprisoned by a cage of flesh capable of feeling nothing but pain. His muscles convulsed, rational thought fled, and Stiles could do nothing but scream, and scream, and scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning Specifics:** Kate tortures Stiles with beating and electrocution. Stiles is naked and she applies the shock torture to his most sensitive areas, including his genitals. It's not really sexual, but Kate is Kate and puts a lot of innuendo on everything. If this isn't something you feel comfortable reading, you can read the first part of the chapter which centers on Derek, and leave off when the scene switches to Stiles and Kate. 
> 
> **Other Notes:** The song lyrics in this chapter are from _"In the Company of Wolves"_ by Incubus. I needed a song for this chapter and it seemed a little bit appropriate, as well as ironic. ;) Plus, Dylan likes Incubus, so I have it in my head that Stiles does too (much like I imagine Scott as a Blink 182 fan).


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, please heed the updated tags for potential trigger warnings. For specific warning information please see the notes at the bottom of the post. Kate is a bad person who does bad things. :S 
> 
> Also, as a side note, I completely make up all the geography and city names in this fic, so... yeah, _any similarity to real people or places, blah blah blah..._

Derek was still hunched over the wheel when Stiles' phone chirruped in his hand, prodding him reluctantly out of his well of misery.  Wiping his eyes, he glanced at the screen to see that a new notification had popped up, telling him that 6 recent photos had been backed up and were ready to share. He automatically tapped at the notification to make it go away, but instead, that ended up taking him into Stiles' photo gallery.

There was probably something a little morbid about looking through a dead man's personal photos, but the first thing that showed on the screen as soon as the app came up was a smiling selfie Stiles had taken in front of some roadside diner. The restaurant had a large, kitschy statue of a cowboy holding up their sign. Stiles had placed himself in front of it, holding out his free arm so it looked sort of like he was holding up the sign instead, his head framed by the cowboy's bright yellow hat.

The sight of that goofy, irrepressible grin hit Derek, _hard_. For a moment he couldn't breathe.

Unable to stop himself, Derek scrolled slowly through the photos, each swipe of his thumb taking him a small step further back in time. The lump in his throat grew increasingly painful as he worked his way along through this visual documentary of a life he'd been part of for only so short a time, and yet managed to destroy so utterly.

There was another selfie of Stiles with some gigantic, disturbingly electric blue slushie drink. He was smiling, but this one didn't quite reach his eyes. He looked tired. There were also a number of random pictures that had obviously, if ill advisedly, been taken while driving. Derek wasn't sure why Stiles was taking pictures of the cars ahead of him on the road until he realized the young man had been trying to get shots of custom plates that amused him.  He made out one that read "DRTH V8R" and another that declared "U2CLOSE". These were obviously road trip pictures from Stiles' recent travels, taken before he misplaced his phone.

Scrolling back a bit farther, Derek saw people other than Stiles begin showing up and reoccurring in the photos. There were a lot of pictures of a young, vaguely Hispanic man with dark curly hair, an infectious smile and a slightly crooked jaw line. Auto-tag squares that popped up around the young man's face in some of the shots indicated that his name was Scott McCall. He was, no doubt, the same Scott who had sent all those text messages. The frequency of his appearance in Stiles' photos indicated that they were close.  The backgrounds of many of the images suggested they were taken on a college campus. 

Derek came to several pictures which showed Scott and Stiles standing together, decked out in tactical vests like the one he'd seen in Stiles' trunk. They were grinning; showing off bruises, spattered with translucent smears of color and holding what were obviously paintball guns. In one of the pictures, it was dark and he could see night vision goggles pushed back and perched atop Stiles' head as he and Scott made serious faces and struck melodramatic, action hero poses for whoever was holding the camera. 

Derek felt his gut twist. _Oh God. So that was it. Paintball. Stiles played **paintball**. _

Still scrolling through the gallery with a trembling thumb, Derek found that pictures of Scott frequently also featured a pretty brunette girl. The two of them were almost always touching. Whether they were sitting together or just standing with arms casually around one another, their body language made it clear they were a couple. The young woman was not familiar to Derek, but the auto tagger helpfully informed him that her name was Allison Argent.

_Know thy enemies,_ the saying went, and Derek had attempted to do so. It wasn't easy, given his nomadic and secretive existence, but he had tried to keep up with and understand the workings of the Argent family. He knew everything the press had to tell him about them and those close to them, even if he felt that much of what made it to public media was fairly unreliable. He also had his own memories, indistinct and child-like though they were.

Derek remembered Gerard from his childhood. He remembered Kate and Chris as well, although to a lesser extent. The Argent siblings had both been older than Derek and they'd walked in different circles, but he'd seen them around often enough to know them by sight. Chris would come with Gerard to their house sometimes. Gerard would talk business with Derek's parents, but more often than not Chris would sneak away after a while to play ball with Derek and Laura in the back yard. Laura didn't normally like playing ball, but Derek had figured out years later that she'd kind of had a crush on Chris, although of course he was much older and already married. It made Derek sick to remember all that now. It was one thing to be hunted by strangers; it was another to be betrayed by people you once trusted. 

If Allison was around Stiles' age, then Derek supposed she must have already been in the picture when he knew the Argents, but even though she would have only been a few years younger than him, he didn't remember ever meeting her. He thought he might have met Chris' wife once, he remembered being struck by her close cropped, fiery red hair, but if he'd ever seen the man's daughter, the memory hadn't stuck.

Gerard was the kingpin and, as a Senator, the most visible member of the family. Derek saw him often on the news over these past years, even though he'd not laid eyes on the man himself in a long time. Kate and Chris were the only ones he'd seen in person since his family had started running. Mostly Kate. He'd only seen Chris once. That night. The night Laura died. Chris had been there.

Derek had all but crashed right into him in the darkness, during his blind flight away from where his sister lay dying. He remembered Chris' silhouette in the moonlight, standing there unmoving, as if frozen in time. Silver starlight glinted harshly off of the gun in his hand as Derek scrambled desperately away from him on his elbows and backside, a tangle of gangly teenage limbs and terror. He managed to claw his way back to his feet and fled on into the night, expecting at any moment to hear a gunshot, to feel a bullet catch him in the back and take him down; only it didn't happen. Derek knew the older man had to have seen him, and should have had plenty of time to at least _try_ to take aim, but the shot never came. 

Derek had a couple more brushes and close calls with Kate after that, but he'd never seen Chris again. The man had led a much more private life than his father and sister had these past years. Save for a few articles regarding his wife's fatal car accident some years back, Chris almost never appeared in the media, which meant that Derek knew very little about him, and even less about the man's child. He knew Allison's name, but that was about all. He realized that these photos on Stiles' phone were the first ones he'd seen of her.

While Kate was often photographed with her father at social events and also popped up from time to time in sportsman magazines or news items relating to her security company, Chris and his daughter were almost never featured in any public stories about the Senator, beyond being mentioned in passing.  That didn't necessarily mean anything, of course. Until now, Derek had assumed that they simply kept a lower profile; either by choice, or simply because Kate was the favored, golden child who got all the attention.

When he'd first seen Allison's name in Stiles' wallet, he'd assumed that she was looking to change all that. He'd thought she was using him as a means to challenge her aunt for a more favored position within the family business and a larger share of her Grandfather's affections ... but now he wasn't so sure. 

Whatever the situation may or may not be with Chris and Allison, these pictures made Stiles' second-hand association with the youngest Argent seem much less damning to Derek than it had before. She was obviously his best friend's girlfriend. Maybe there was more to that story, maybe there wasn't. If there wasn't, it was one hell of a coincidence to be sure, but he supposed that stranger things had happened.  

Derek looked down at where Allison's card was lying, up-side down on the floor of the passenger foot well. The credit card's brightly colored exterior seemed vaguely accusing, somehow, as if it were passing judgment on him for being an idiot.  When he had first seen it, he'd assumed it was like an expense account of some kind, a sign that the Argents were sponsoring Stiles' efforts to find and get close to him. In the light of these photos, however, a much more innocent picture was now coming to him.

Stiles had been going on a road trip, and this was a gas card. Maybe it had simply been a loan among friends, or the repayment of some debt.  Maybe that was just what people who had friends did.  He wouldn't know. Stiles was the closest thing he'd had in a very long time, and he'd gotten him killed.

Worse, maybe he hadn't. _Yet._  

Derek kept thinking about Stiles like he was dead, but the truth was, he couldn't really be sure about that.  The crash he'd witnessed hadn't been serious enough to be undeniably fatal. If Stiles had survived that, then it was possible Kate could have taken him alive for questioning. It was more than possible, actually, it was _probable_. If Stiles _wasn't_ involved in any kind of internal family power struggle, which Derek now thought seemed less and less likely, then killing him on the spot would be a poor plan. With Derek still on the loose, Kate would be looking for any avenue that might lead her to him. She'd want to know what Stiles' connection to all this was, and if the boy could help her find her prey. 

Derek's fingers tightened around the phone in his hand, feeling even more conflicted than before. Down this road lay both hope and madness.  Hope, because he _wanted_ to believe Stiles could still be alive. Madness, because if he _was_ , the young man was almost certainly being viciously pressed for information he didn't possess and would eventually end up dead all the same.  

Derek couldn't look at the smiling, goofy, heartbreakingly _ordinary_ pictures of Stiles anymore. Sick at heart, he turned the phone off.  Remembering Stiles' precautions earlier, he numbly pried the back off and removed the battery to make the phone untraceable. The action reminded him of the phone that Stiles had taken off the guard at the station.  It was down in the passenger foot well with everything else.  Leaning over, Derek rooted around until he fished out both the phone and the disconnected battery that went with it.  He stared at them for several long minutes. 

An idea was coming to him; a crazy, stupid, very ill advised and possibly suicidal idea.

Slowly, he snapped the battery into the back of the phone and turned it on. Once the screen came to life, he tapped on the contact book icon. Ordinarily, he would have no way of knowing how to get in touch with his pursuers, short of going out in the open and making himself vulnerable to them. It wasn't like he had their personal phone numbers. What was he going to do, call up Kate's office and leave a message on her machine?  Who knew when she'd get that and it would only give her time to be ready to trace his location and try to jump on him the next time he called, even if he _wasn't_ stupid enough to leave a callback number. Catching her off guard from a hopefully unexpected source was the only safe way to have a conversation. If he was lucky, this phone was his key to that.

Derek ignored the little voice in his head that told him he should replace _lucky_ with _stupid,_ because voluntarily reaching out to the people he'd spent his whole life running from was certainly nothing short of idiocy.

He ran into the first problem with his nascent excuse for a plan almost immediately, because the phone's contact book was empty. Judging by the lack of personalization and the sparse, default collection of icons this was probably a burner phone. There were plenty of incoming and outgoing calls in the call log, but there were no names attached to any of them, just numbers.

_There, okay, you tried, it won't work. You should just get out of here now. Be realistic, there's nothing you can do._

Derek's jaw clenched against the cowardly, unbidden thoughts. _There was. There **was** something he could do. _Okay, so maybe it was risky and terrified the shit out of him, but he had to try. He had to. He couldn't just run away. Not again. Not this time.

Screwing up his resolve and taking a chance, Derek picked the number with the most incoming calls and pressed the _talk_ button.

 

* * *

 

Stiles was sobbing hysterically. He couldn't stop, and he didn't care. "Please," he begged through the choking tears, his voice soft and completely wrecked from screaming too much. "Please ... no ... don't. _Please_."

Kate smiled at him, her eyes dark with something almost like hunger. She pressed the picana into his raw, burned flesh again and Stiles' worn-out body arched reflexively. He couldn't scream anymore, the sounds being pulled from him were guttural, ragged and completely desperate.

He sagged, still sobbing when she pulled the wicked tool away again. He was a mess. He felt like he was coming apart, bits of him flaking away and scattering into nothing. Unable to stand any longer, he hung from his wrists.  His exposed, freckled skin was mottled with bruises and crisscrossed with angry red burns, the worst damage focusing sadistically around his most sensitive areas.  

He flinched, his whole, shuddering body trying to shy away and a strangled sob catching in his throat as Kate teased him, feinting like she was going to dig the prod into him again only to pull it back at the last moment. She seemed to enjoy his frightened, desperate little reactions and whimpers.

She obviously liked humiliating him, but Stiles didn't have it in him anymore to feel embarrassed. Those sensations seemed to have been burned away, part of the pieces of himself he was slowly losing as the relentless pain and cruelty stripped him down to his component parts. 

"Mm, those burns are starting to look nasty," Kate murmured pleasantly, appraising his blistering skin. "I bet that hurts. Does it hurt, sweetheart?"

Shaking, Stiles nodded. He didn't have it in him to bite back or anger her unnecessarily anymore. He'd play her games; he'd do whatever she wanted if it would make this any easier. He flinched hard when the picana slid under his chin, but the power was off for the moment and she just used it to tip his dropping head back up again.

"Use your words, sweetheart. Does it hurt?" she pressed with faux sweetness.

"Y-yes," Stiles rasped obediently, chest heaving in aborted little jerks. It was a massive understatement.

"Do you want me to give you some more?" Kate trailed the inactive instrument down his throat, pressing the blunt tip into one of the angry burns on his chest.

Stiles shook his head urgently. "No," he croaked. " _Please."_  

"Oh, but the treats go to the good boys, love. Are you ready to be a good boy for me?  You know what I want."

Stiles hung his head and sobbed.  He knew, and he couldn't give it. He'd do anything to make this stop, anything but the one thing that actually might. He was going to die anyway; he wouldn't take anyone with him. That would be his last act of defiance, the one final piece of himself he wouldn't let her take.

"Where shall I put it, then?  Do you want it here?" she ghosted the rod across his ribs, watching his abdomen tremble. "Or maybe here..." she hovered over his navel.  "Or how about here?" she aimed it at the blistering flesh on the inside of his thighs.  "Oh, yes. Definitely here," she said with pleasure when Stiles cried a little harder and pressed himself back against the grating behind him.  Clearly, she'd been watching his body language to see where he wanted it _least._ Stiles tried not to give himself away like that, but he was too far gone to be able to have anything like control.

"No, no, no..." Stiles shook his head, begging frantically. He knew it wouldn't do any good, all the pleading in the world wouldn't stop this, but the words tumbled out of him all the same.

Kate dug the live prod into the burn on his right thigh. Stiles cried and yelled and writhed, but she was starting to look a little bored with it.

As he sagged yet again, gasping in his bonds, Stiles numbly wondered how long it would be before Kate finally tired of this and moved onto something he'd probably like even less.  Should he dread that, or welcome it?  He had been formulating a sort-of plan for when that time came.  He always tried to have a plan, even if sometimes they sucked. This was definitely one of the sucky plans, but coming up with it and clinging to it was at least helping him stay sane.

Stiles glanced over at the wicked assortment of blades, clamps and hammers on the table across from him. He didn't think they were just for intimidation. By now he was pretty certain it wasn't a matter of _if_ they were going to use those on him, but only a matter of _when._ He was barely hanging on now. He knew he'd never make it through that. 

The plan, such as it was, was that he would hold out for as long as he could. Then, when Kate got tired of playing it "safe" and they moved on to maiming stuff like smashing or removing body parts, then Stiles would allow himself to break.  

He would tell them a made up story about a rendezvous that he and Derek were supposed to keep if they got separated. His captors would know that Derek would probably not show for a meeting like that now, since after what happened in the canyon he had to be aware that Stiles may have been taken and questioned, but hey, that wouldn't be Stiles' fault, would it?  He was being helpful. He was "betraying" Derek and giving them everything they wanted. He'd be sure to act broken up about it. Wouldn't be hard, it wasn't like he could stop crying anyway.

Basically, his plan was to lie his ass off about everything and hope that how long he'd held out would give weight to the fiction. He'd give them a fake, common name and pretend he was a foster kid from LA who had recently aged out of the system. He'd been living on the streets and out of stolen cars since then. One too many grand theft auto charges he couldn't skinny out of had sent him running off on a quest to lose himself in the far back country for a while, and that's how he ended up out where he met Derek. It was a good cover story. It would be almost impossible for them to disprove and it would leave them thinking no one would miss him. That he had no family or friends for them to hunt down and hurt. If he was lucky, they'd never bother looking into him any further.

Hopefully, they would believe him. Hopefully, Kate would be bored enough of hearing him scream by then that she would be ready to move on and wouldn't keep torturing him just for kicks. By that point, he would be of no further use to them, and he expected Kate would kill him. By that point, he was sure he would be ready to welcome it.  

Kate pressed the picana to the inside of his other thigh.

Stiles thought that maybe, death was already starting to look pretty attractive. He wondered if he really had to wait much longer; if he _could_ wait much longer. They'd probably believe him now, wouldn't they?  And yet ... for some reason the words wouldn't come.

Stiles pressed his head back against the grate behind him, banging his head softly and rhythmically in an attempt at distraction. He cursed himself for a fool. He wanted this to end, but there was some part of him that hadn't quite given up yet, that hadn't fully accepted that he was going to die and might as well get it over with.  That stubborn streak of optimism was likely to cause him nothing but pain, but he couldn't let it go. Not yet. He felt like he had so few pieces left already.

"Hey, hey!" Kate was snapping her fingers in front of his face and patting his cheek roughly.  Stiles blinked, realizing he must have started to drift.  Unconsciousness sounded blissful. He wondered what it would take to get there. Could he slam his head hard enough to knock himself out? Was the grating behind him substantial enough?

"There you go," Kate said as Stiles' came unwillingly around. "Am I not holding your attention, sweetheart? Should I make this more interesting?"

Stiles was too wrung out to respond much to the threat. His head just slid to the side again.  He was wearing out and overwhelmed. Somewhere across the room, one of the guards' cell phones sounded, playing a faint, chiming melody that Stiles didn't recognize. It cut off when the man picked up, but the tune continued to dance lazily about his Stiles' head, spinning round and round and round...

Kate frowned thoughtfully. She stroked the bruises and red marks on the side of Stiles' neck as if looking for inspiration.  "I should, shouldn't I?" she crooned. "We need to get creative, don't we?"  Her gaze strayed to the faint bruises beneath the burns. A malicious gleam entered her eyes that made Stiles' already twisted gut knot up harder.

"So, you and Derek doing the horizontal mambo ... means you like boys, right, sweetheart?" she drawled and Stiles was immediately afraid of wherever this was going. He swallowed and sniffed but didn't give her an answer. Kate didn't seem to require one this time.

"You like being fucked, kid?" she smiled wickedly. "I think you like being fucked."  She slid the inactive prod against him, gliding it all the way up the inside of his thigh and rubbing it back and forth between his legs. "Think you'll like being fucked with this? Bet it could be pretty electrifying."

Normally, Stiles would have given her hell about the truly ghastly pun, but just now he was shaking too hard, his mind too full of babbling panic.  _No. No. He couldn't. He couldn't do this. He couldn't._  Sobs choked him and he shook his head mutely, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes in silent entreaty.  _No, no, no, nononononon..._

Pleased at getting a reaction, Kate turned to Ames to give an order, only to stop with a small frown when she saw that one of the other men had come over and was speaking to Ames in a low whisper.

"What?" she demanded impatiently, eyeing the cell phone in the newcomer's hand. It glowed visibly in the dimly lighted room, drawing attention and indicating it was active.

Both men looked towards her, but it was Ames who spoke. "I think you need to take this," he told her slowly, as if weighing his words. "Mike just got a call from a guy asking for you. Guy's using Rich's phone but claims he's Derek Hale." He sounded a trifle skeptical.  

"Really?  How interesting." Kate looked surprised and also a tad suspicious, but waltzed over to them immediately.  She snatched the phone from Mike and pressed it to her ear, turning back towards Stiles and spinning the picana absently in her hand as she spoke.

"Kate here, who's this?" she asked casually. Her eyebrows edged up and she made a gesture to Ames and Mike, pointing to the phone in her hand and then gesturing towards the door. The two men hurried off to do something. What, that might be, Stiles could only guess.

Stiles stained his ears, trying to quiet his ragged, hiccuping breaths so he could hear better, but he wasn't able to pick up Derek's side of the conversation. If that _was_ Derek. Which ... didn't really make sense at all. Why would Derek be calling Kate?  How would he even have gotten the number ... ?  Oh. _Oh._ The guard's phone, from the station. Right.

"Well that's what you _say_ , but how do I _know_ it's really ..." Kate's pleasant drawl was cut off mid-stream. "Well, well, no need to get snippy," she said with mock reproof. "You can't blame a girl for wondering. I mean, you never write, you never call ... honestly, Derek, it's like you just don't care at all," she tutted theatrically.

"Although, I suppose I can't blame you for being a little preoccupied," she continued, seeming content to dominate the conversation without much apparent curiosity about why he'd called. "I've been having the nicest chat with your sweet little boyfriend and I have to say, he's a real cutie. Not much of a conversationalist, but he does scream _so_ pretty. Oh, oh... hang on..."

She took the phone from her ear and thumbed it onto speaker.  Reaching over, she twisted one of the dials on the picana's control box and then moved back over to Stiles. Holding the phone up, she dug the live wand tip into his navel.

Stiles should have been expecting it, but he wasn't. He cried out, the sound at the same time too hoarse to be a scream and too agonized to be anything else.

Over the speakerphone, above the sound of his own wobbly, rasping breaths, Stiles could hear Derek cursing at Kate as she pulled the rod away. He knew she'd done that for no other reason than to make him scream for Derek and he hated her for that.

"You don't have to hurt him!" Derek half seethed, half pleaded over the phone. "It won't do you any good. He's innocent, Kate, I swear. He's just a boy I met by chance who was unlucky enough to be around when you showed up. He doesn't know anything." He was still on speaker and Kate didn't seem inclined to take him off. She probably thought it was fun to make Stiles listen to him beg. 

"Is that what you called to tell me, Derek? To beg for your little boy toy's life?" Kate asked. 

"I called you to make a trade," Derek said tensely. You could practically hear his teeth grinding over the phone. "Me for him."

" _WHAT?_   NO!" Stiles exploded incredulously. _What the hell was Derek thinking?  That was a **horrible** plan._

"Stiles, this is my fault. I have to make it right," Derek insisted gruffly. "Kate, do we have a deal or not?"

"Oh, I don't know," Kate said coyly.  "I'm not so sure I _want_ to trade. I'm having so much fun with _Stiles,_ here," she said, grinning smugly at him and deliberately stressing his name.

Stiles grit his teeth. He really appreciated what Derek was trying to do here; it was sweet, and noble and all that, but he kind of wanted to punch him in the face at the same time. Fortunately, it wasn't like Kate was going to get anywhere with just _Stiles_ because that wasn't even his legal name, but still, Derek really needed to shut up now.

Derek snorted. "I'd like to see what _you_ consider fun."

"Oh really?  Would you?" Kate sounded amused. She lifted the phone and used it to snap a picture of Stiles. Stiles blinked in confusion at the unexpected spots before his eyes as she tapped quickly at the phone. "Ever sexted before, Derek? Hm, probably not. Well, I sent you a picture," she informed. "You'll see why I'm thinking I might just hang onto this one. _God,_ how his skin does hold a bruise. Gorgeous, really. I can always catch up with you later, honey. You know I can."

There was a funny kind of a sound from the other end of the phone, something like a strangled growl. Stiles closed his eyes and winced, pretty sure Derek had just seen the picture. If he looked anything like he felt, he looked like crap. He'd really rather Derek hadn't seen that. Was that an odd thing to be caring about right now?

"Six hours from now," Derek snapped, his voice clipped with barely contained rage. "Be at Hogs Hollow Irish pub in Lutzville. There's an alley out back. If you want to end all this the easy way, just show up there with Stiles. Stiles gets to drive away, then I'll go with you without a fight."

"Now Derek, you don't even know where we are, that's not a lot of time to..."

"FUCK the time," Derek snapped. "If you want to be there, you'll find a way. If you don't show, or if you try to pull some kind of trap, then I will disappear and you can have fun wading through swamps and digging through every shithole in the country looking for me for another four years, because I swear to you, Kate, I will make it my personal mission to find a way to make your life hell. Maybe I'll even write cheery little letters to your old man every so often about what a fucking lousy job you're doing and how you _still_ haven't cleaned up your mess. Bet that'd make him happy."

Stiles was shaking his head even though Derek couldn't see him. "No, Derek!  Bad idea, bad!" he protested. "They're never going to let me go, dude!  They'll just kill us both. Don't do it!"

Kate's mouth had gone tight. She casually backhanded Stiles to shut him up. "You've got to be thinking the kid's right, Hale. Why are you doing this?"

"Because I think not having me around as a constant sore spot in your life is worth more to you than the life of one kid who can't do a damn thing to hurt you, and who now knows firsthand just how bad you can fuck him up if he tries. It's a good trade, but I'm not kidding, Kate. You come with him, alone. I see anybody else, I'm gone." 

Stiles caught sight of Ames and Mike over in the corner. They appeared to be setting up a laptop computer or something ... suddenly, he understood, and he knew why Kate had been talking so much. It wasn't just because she liked taunting.

"Derek, she's trying to make you stay on the phone so she has time to set up and trace it. Hang up, Derek. Hang up!" he warned urgently, his raw voice cracking around the words.  

"I don't care if she traces it, Stiles," Derek's voice was surprisingly gentle. "She already knows where I'm going to be in six hours. There's no need for games, Kate. Play straight with me, and we can both get what we want. Stiles, I ... I'm sorry."  There was a rawness in his voice that he couldn't hide.  Then he hung up, and the line went dead.

Stiles banged his head back against the grating behind him, this time in frustration.  _Derek, please, don't be an idiot! Don't make me have gone through all this for nothing. Stay away, please. Live. I need you to live._

"Did you get anything?" Kate asked, dropping the cell on the table and turning towards where Ames and Mike were hunching over the laptop.

"Just got the program up," Ames said distractedly. "But it's okay, we don't really need him on the line.  He's using Rich's phone so we should be able to tap into the GPS, as soon as we ..." he stopped, a flicker of annoyance tightening his features. It was the first time Stiles had seen any emotion from him at all.

Mike swore. "Son of a bitch, there's no signal. He must have powered down the phone as soon as he got off."

"Can you turn it back on remotely?" Kate asked.

"Not from here," Ames shook his head. "And if he has any sense, he's pulled the battery anyway."

Stiles was glad that Derek did seem to at least have that much sense.

"Damn," Kate looked annoyed, but thoughtful. "Where the hell is Lutzville?" she demanded, striding over and pushing Mike out of the way so she could lean over the laptop herself and tap rapidly at the keys. "Hm," she said after a moment, sounding even more thoughtful.

"We could be there in a little under five hours if we leave now," Ames remarked, his height making him easily able to see the screen over her shoulder. "Trish and Joe are closer. Think he'll really show?"

"I don't know," Kate mused, straightening to cross her arms and stare at the screen with a distant, calculating expression. "Derek hasn't stayed off the radar this long by being stupid, but who knows?" She glanced over at Stiles with a wry expression. "People do stupid things when they think they're in love. Maybe our elusive little ghost has got himself a new Achilles heel."

"Should I call Trish and tell her to head over there?" Ames asked.

"Yes, tell them to locate this Hogs Hollow place and sweep the area, but be subtle about it. He could already be there and watching. No need to spook our noble little Romeo off if he really _is_ planning on showing. Tell them I'll meet them there. If they find anything before then, have them call my cell direct."

Kate turned away, heading back across the room towards the table and Stiles. 

"We're actually going?" Mike's tone was a little incredulous.

" _I_ am going," Kate contradicted. "If Derek has any actual intention of being there, it means he's probably got some kind of trick up his sleeve. If Trish and Joe smoke him first, great, but the kid knows how to hide, I'll give him that. If they come up empty, then I need to be on hand to make the meet. Easiest way to flush him out if he's for real is to act like we're playing along, which means he'll need to see me," she explained distractedly, picking up a duffle bag from beside the table and slinging it over her shoulder. It clanked like there was something heavy and metal inside. Rifles, or machine guns, maybe.

"Ames, you, Mike and Sven will stay here to guard sweet cheeks over there in case this is some kind of ruse." Kate jerked her head in Stiles' direction as she continued issuing brisk orders. "Stay alert. Check in with Yates and Donavan, don't tell Yates about the call, but make sure they're still diligently searching to the north. If this _is_ a red herring, then like as not Derek's actually up that way and trying to be clever by making us rush all our resources down to Lutzville. Keep trying to ping that phone, too, let me know if he turns it back on "

Stiles felt ill.  Well... even _more_ ill, anyway.Kate was depressingly competent.

"So, you're _not_ taking the kid?" Mike asked, making Stiles think he was perhaps a little less competent. Even _he_ understood what Kate was up to, unfortunately.  

"To a location we don't control that Hale will have plenty of time to prep before we get there?  No," Kate said with some asperity, casting a look at Ames that seemed to be asking him to remind her why they had this guy. "While it would be a lot of _fun_ , we don't _need_ Derek alive. I don't need him to turn himself over, I just need to be able to _see_ him so I can _shoot_ him," she said with fake patience, as if speaking to a child. "We'll hang onto the kid for now, but I'm not about to drag his beat up, jail-bait looking ass somewhere where Derek could have a bunch of cops headed, thinking they're going to find kidnappers or human traffickers or something."

Kate turned towards Stiles. She reached out and Stiles flinched, body tightening instinctively, but she only patted his cheek. He noted with relief that her hands were empty save for the bag over her shoulder.  "Guess you get a little reprieve for now, but don't worry pet, I'll be back later," she promised with a dark smile. "Maybe I'll even bring you back a playmate, if he doesn't make me kill him too fast." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Warning info:_ Kate threatens to rape Stiles as part of torturing him. It is threatened only, there is no rape in this story, but if the threat of it is triggery to you, please skip the part of this chapter that deals with Kate and Stiles.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... in which Derek is a little more clever than either Kate or Stiles give him credit for. :) 
> 
> Please continue to heed the warnings from the previous couple of chapters because Kate is a creep who fights dirty and they continue to apply.

Kate pushed her hands in the pockets of her jacket against the lingering chill of the pre-dawn air. She stalked up and down the disgustingly filthy alleyway with the casualness of a cat waiting for a mouse to come out of its hole.

Overflowing dumpsters and trash of all description littered the pavement, the alley reeking of rotting garbage and piss. At one end, a lighted sign strobed pink light onto the blind brick wall of the building across from it, providing some of the only light to reach this dark little corner of the world in the still heavy twilight.

This was not the kind of place a woman should be alone at night, but Kate was not concerned. At this point, she actually almost _hoped_ someone would be stupid enough to bother her. She'd really like to break a few bones or shoot someone in the nuts right now. It would be cathartic.

This whole, merry little chase was taking its toll, whether she wanted to admit it or not. She'd hiked through back country for hours, been involved in a minor car accident, spent a great deal of time driving both this night and the previous night and had now been up for well over 36 hours straight. She hadn't felt it when she was distracted playing with that boy, but the weariness had started settling in during the long, monotonous drive out to Lutzville. She probably should have taken Mike or Sven and made them drive so she could sleep on the way, but the adrenaline high she'd been running on meant she hadn't recognized the need until too late. Not a good sign.

It wouldn't be a problem, however. She wouldn't _let_ it be a problem. She was running fine on caffeine and stimulants and knew she could go a good while more before she truly started to hit her limit. However, Kate was all too aware that physical exhaustion took a toll on her mental capacity. It could dull the senses and make her less sharp than normal, something she couldn't really afford right now. This knowledge left her double and triple checking herself at every turn. That was its own kind of exhausting, but this was too important to screw up. There had been too many failures in the past. She downplayed it to others, but Derek Hale was her white whale and she was itching to sink a harpoon into that elusive fucker once and for all.

First, of course, they had to _find_ him. They had thoroughly scouted this area and as much of the surrounding town as they could in the hours before the rendezvous Derek had indicated, but had turned up nothing. In a city this large, he could be anywhere, _if_ he was here at all. So, now here she was, impatiently checking her watch every five minutes and wondering if she were wasting her time as she paced back and forth across the length of the narrow, deserted side-street.  

Ames had called her while she was still on the road, letting her know that the phone Derek had used had been made active again and they'd run a trace. The GPS indicated that it was indeed in Lutzville and she'd relayed the general coordinates to Trish and Joe. The pair had been no more than half an hour out at the time, but even so they had found nothing when they arrived other than that area indicated by the GPS coincided with the meeting place Derek had given.  

At least they knew he _had_ been there, but the phone hadn't moved in hours and although they'd called it several times, there had been no answer. Stiles had told Derek on the phone that they were trying to trace him. It was likely that he'd turned the phone on before he'd taken off and left it somewhere around here as an added lure to make sure they came.  The GPS put it right here, somewhere in this group of buildings, but if the ringer was off and Derek wasn't carrying it, something as small as a phone could be anywhere.  It could easily be in one of the reeking dumpsters lining the alley, or shoved into some out-of-the-way corner inside one of the establishments on either side. At this hour even the bar was closed and locked up tight, leaving them with no easy way to search inside short of breaking and entering. Not that that was a problem, but breaking into every building on the block risked drawing unwanted attention and offered very little actual potential for reward. If Derek _was_ hiding in one of these buildings, they ran the risk of setting him running if they made their presence too obviously known.   

Kate would send in a team to sweep this area with a fine toothed comb until the phone was recovered later, if Derek didn't show, but while there was still the chance that he might, she didn't want to risk spooking him off.

For the same reason, she'd made sure Trish and Joe kept a low profile. They were currently staked out at strategic locations on the nearby rooftops, covering both ends of the alley with night vision scopes and sniper rifles. Kate was confident in her own abilities, but also believed in covering her bases. The alley was what she would consider a porous area. Although it _seemed_ to have only two main points of entrance and egress at either end, it was lined with doors and windows. They were all locked up tight as far as she could tell, but that didn't mean someone couldn't come through them from inside one of the buildings, or take a shot at her through one of the blacked-painted windows, for that matter.

Wary of a trap, Kate wore Kevlar beneath her shirt and kept herself in motion and away from the windows as much as possible. She was willing to take a reasonable amount of risk to lure out her prey, but wasn't ready to trust her life to the idea that Derek just wanted his boy toy back. They had clearly been _led_ to this location. She was trying to lure Derek out where she could kill him, and she was well aware he could be doing the same. The only thing that made people braver and more foolhardy than love after all, was revenge.

She had considered parking in the alley and waiting in the car, but ultimately had decided that the more apparently vulnerable she made herself, the more likely Derek would be to show, if such was actually his intention. With no vehicle in sight, he'd _have_ to come to her if he wanted to find out where Stiles was ... and besides, if she sat still right now, the danger of fatigue catching up with her and setting her dozing was much too high. She was both hunter and bait in this particular scenario and she needed to stay sharp.

Of course, that was assuming that Derek was actually anywhere _near_ this city and not actively fleeing in the opposite direction while making her wait here like a jilted lover. That's what she'd be doing, if she were him. The idea of being toyed with filled her with a cold rage, but as long as there was a chance he was serious, she had to play this out. If it ended up that he was playing games with her then she would make him pay when she did catch up with him, and in the meantime, she'd enjoy taking it out of that Stiles' kid's pretty hide. She wondered if Ames or Mike would be up for fucking him when she got back, because she'd like to watch that. Too bad she'd had to put Stan down last year, he was always up for fucking anything that moved, and a lot of things that didn't.

Kate held her breath as she passed by a particularly odiferous dumpster behind what was probably a Chinese restaurant, judging by the edges of rotting paper takeout containers leaking from torn bags spilling from the overstuffed, over-ripe trash receptacle. Rats scurried about in the shadows.

It was a good thing she had a strong stomach. Kate was pretty sure there could have been a body decomposing in this alley and you wouldn't have been able to tell, and that was a subject on which she had some authority. She smiled grimly, entertaining the fantasy of burying Derek's body in one of the dumpsters and letting him rot away with the rest of the trash.

Sighing, she turned on her heel to make another pass along the alley. It wasn't a bad idea, but she knew her father would prefer it if she went a little more old school and buried him in the desert somewhere. No need to chance anyone finding any DNA that could potentially tie back to the old Hale case.  Usually, Kate did things her own way when she was on the hunt, but when it came to the Hales and her father ... let's just say there were some boats you didn't rock; not if you knew what was good for you. Especially not if you had been stuck playing Ahab's right hand for as long as she had.

Kate was just in the middle of checking her watch for the dozenth time, when a faint sound from the end of the alley near the Hogs Hollow pub drew her attention in that direction.  Hand sliding beneath her jacket, she withdrew her gun. She held it down straight by her leg where she could most easily hide it from casual view if necessary. Quickly but cautiously, she moved back down the alley towards the source of the sound.

As she drew closer, the sound became louder; a short, synthesized melody, playing over and over again, like a cell phone ringing. She looked around for the source and realized it was coming from inside or beneath the dumpster beside the Hogs Hollow's back door.

Swearing under her breath and looking around warily, Kate finally knelt down on the filthy street and tilted her head to peer beneath the oozing dumpster. She shoved trash out of the way, moving cautiously and keeping a tight hold on her gun. This could be a distraction meant to take her off guard, but she knew Trish and Joe would be watching her back from their positions.

It was dark beneath the dumpster and crowded with moldering trash. Even with a flashlight, she might not have been able to pick out individual objects amid all the muck, but this object was fortunately now acting as its own beacon. In the gloom she could clearly see the white-blue glow of an active LCD screen shining upward onto the rusting underside of the dumpster, the melody continuing to chime away long after a ringing phone should have gone to voicemail. At least it was under the dumpster and not _in_ it, but it was resting pretty far to the back.

She looked around for something long that she could use to fish the object out, but found nothing suitable. She tried throwing her weight against the heavy dumpster and it didn't budge. Swearing again, she finally just dropped down onto her stomach on the ground beside the dumpster and wriggled forward, reaching her arm under as far as she could and patting around until she found the smooth body of the object she sought.

Clothing thoroughly ruined, her hand and cheek smeared with what was either decomposing food or sewage, Kate straightened and studied the small black phone that she had retrieved. It looked suspiciously like the burner phones that many of her people carried for communicating while on jobs and she was fairly positive that she'd just found the elusive source of the GPS signal they'd been tracing. It had been in the alley with her the whole time. _Son of a bitch._ She'd know that was a possibility, but it still didn't make her happy.

The lighted screen offered her "Off" and "Snooze" options for the alarm currently blaring away at full volume. So, not a call then, an alarm, set to go off at the time when Derek had said to be here. Kate supposed he must have turned the ringer off but left the phone's media volume turned on, which would explain why they hadn't heard the phone ringing any of the times they'd called.   _Interesting._

Kate thumbed the alarm off and swiped the screen active, absently wiping her sticky cheek with her clean sleeve. The alley was disgusting, but she wasn't squeamish when there was work to do. Well acquainted with gutting and dressing her kills in the wild, she wasn't particularly disturbed about getting a little messy. She'd been fond of the shirt, though, and somebody was definitely going to pay for that later.

All the icons on the home screen had been removed except for one which sat in the center of the empty space. Kate didn't recognize the icon, but clearly, she was supposed to open the app it represented. She paused for a moment, considering, then went ahead and tapped it.

"All right, Hale, let's see what you're up to," she mused aloud under her breath.

Some kind of chat or texting app came up with one message showing from a user whose handle was "dhale2kate". The timestamp on the message said it had been sent hours ago, probably before the phone was placed under the dumpster. It simply read: _"reply when you get this."_

"You sly little dog," she murmured, lifting her eyebrows.

_"What is it?"_ Trish's voice came through Kate's earpiece. They had been maintaining radio silence at Kate's instruction previously, but Trish had fairly good instincts and seemed to guess from Kate's tone that the situation was taking a turn.

"He left Rich's phone," Kate responded. "Looks like he set up a messaging app on it so he can communicate with us without revealing whatever number he's messaging from." She had to admit it was a smart move, one that left an open line of communication between them without giving her the ability to easily trace him. Maybe Hale wasn't quite as recklessly love-blind as she thought. On one hand, that was annoying for obvious reasons, but on the other, the challenging prey was always the most interesting.

Kate hit reply and tapped out _"I'm going to take my ruined shirt out of your boyfriend's ass"_ by way of response and hit send.

_"Thought you liked getting your hands dirty. Stiles with you?"_ The speed with which the reply came back told her that wherever he was, Derek had been waiting for the communication.

_"You show me yours I'll show you mine."_ Kate responded. _"Where are you?"_

_"Stiles first,"_ Derek insisted, _"theres a newspaper on the ground by the dumpster. Have him hold it and stand in front of the pink sign. Take a pic and send to me so i know hes really there."_

Kate looked down and saw that there was indeed a crumpled local newspaper from a few days previous lying partially beside, partially underneath the dumpster by her feet. She clenched her jaw and breathed through her teeth, suddenly feeling too tired for this shit. Should she have contemplated the fact that he might have some way to force her to verify that she had the boy with her? Realistically though, she could only cover so many bases at a time.

Trusting Trish and Joe to have her back, Kate holstered her weapon and rubbed the heel of her clean hand into her aching eyes as she tried to figure out the best way to handle this new wrinkle.

After a long pause during which she failed to come up with suitably plausible lie, another message from Derek popped up.

_"He's not with you is he."_

_"No,"_ Kate typed back, jabbing the screen a little harder than necessary. _"tbh I didn't think you'd show. Do you want me to go back and fuck his cute little ass raw or you want to come with me and spare him that?"_

There was a long pause and Kate went back to pacing. The sky was starting to grow lighter and a lone car passed by on the road outside the alley. She wondered if she should head back to her own car. Given the thought Derek had put into setting up this method of communication he wasn't likely to be in this immediate area, even if he was in the city somewhere. With daylight approaching, her two snipers would soon have to abandon their rooftop perches or risk being seen.

_"I can't trust you,"_ Derek's message finally came back.

Kate rolled her eyes. _"You can trust that i'm going to take that kid apart,"_ she promised. _"Slowly. Make him last for days. Weeks maybe. Soon as i get back im gonna bend him over and have every one of my men fuck him til he bleeds. Then ill stick a prod up his ass and light him up like a christmas tree. i will WRECK him Derek and ill make sure he knows why i'm doing it."_

She was aware she might be coming on too strong, but she was too irritable by this point to care. _"I'm leaving,"_ she added, turning and stalking out of the alley.  She made a slicing motion in front of her neck in the vague direction of the rooftops, signaling Trish and Joe to pack it in. 

_"Wait"_ the reply came back almost instantly.

_"No"_ she shot back just as fast, typing as she walked, although staying aware of her surroundings. _"Done playing."_

_"Lets set another meet, try this again."_

Kate halted, staring at the screen for a moment, considering. _"nope done playing,"_ she finally typed again. _"Come out now or im gone."_

She waited another minute or two for a response, then resumed walking to the car when she didn't get one. Another message finally came through as she reached the SUV. Trish and Joe were already there, quickly and unobtrusively stowing their rifles in the back. This was her ride, theirs was parked a few streets over. She would need to drop them off.  She had a headache.

_"Can't. Not in lutzville. set up another meet?"_

Kate snorted, although that was about what she had expected. Derek must have planned to have her take Stiles somewhere else after making contact, if she'd actually brought him. It had been a decent plan, actually, one meant to keep her from being able to have time to adequately secure whatever real meeting place he had in mind for them.

Kate scrubbed a hand over her face. She was tired and irritable and wanted to just tell him no again. She wanted to force his hand and just make him come to her now. Without having Stiles on hand, however, she knew she held insufficient incentive. If she pushed too hard, she could lose him entirely. Derek knew he was bargaining his own life away and she didn't want to make him rethink that not terribly intelligent plan. If he was fool enough to think she'd ever _actually_ let Stiles go, she ought to foster that notion along. An open line of communication was at least more helpful to her than complete silence. He may think he was being clever, but she had much more experience at this kind of game and would get him to give himself away one way or another.

_"Maybe. I set the place,"_ she sent back finally.

"Joe, you drive," Kate said, climbing up into the passenger seat of her own car. "We'll drop Trish off and then you're going to drive me back to Elkhorn. Trish, I want you to stay here and keep an eye on things. Derek may or may not be in this city, but he's likely somewhere in this general area. I'll have Ames start contacting local assets, but if anything develops, I want you to take point. Don't take any crap from the local LEOs."  She had a large and comprehensive network at her back, but her boots-on-the-ground manpower was not inexhaustible. She couldn't be watching everywhere at once.

Well, she _could_ if her father would let her manipulate the situation and get Derek on a police or federal watch list as some kind of dangerous criminal or terrorist. Then they could use the eyes and ears of every law enforcement agency across the country ... but Gerard had specifically forbid her from drawing that kind of attention. This had to be handled _quietly_. 

Fortunately, he had no issue with her working with individual contacts within those agencies, and Kate was resourceful. If you had the right connections or knew how to look, you could usually kick over a few bad apples in any law enforcement body who could either be bribed or blackmailed into helping out as needed. So, she worked around the strictures placed on her as best she could while dutifully avoiding anything broad scale that would involve people they couldn't definitively control, or that could, heaven forbid, risk any kind of media attention. It was a fucking election year after all.

She needed a drink, and she _didn't_ mean coffee.

The phone buzzed with a new message. _"I set the place."_

Kate slipped the phone into her pocket and didn't respond immediately. Let him sweat a little. They drove the few blocks to where the other car was located and dropped Trish off. She called Ames, checked in on the prisoner, and passed on her instructions. A stop at a gas station to refuel allowed Kate to wash her face and hands and change her shirt for a spare from her bag. By the time Joe was pulling out onto the highway, Derek had sent four more messages.

  _"I set the place."_

_"Not negotiable."_

_"Nothing in it for me if you kill us both."_

_"Kate?"_

Kate eyed the phone. She was tempted to tell him the slightly more believable lie that what was in it for him was that she'd kill Stiles quick and clean rather than slow and messy, but she thought she'd save that offer for later. Let Derek keep his delusions for some better outcome as long as possible. A little hope was a powerful tool if leveraged correctly.  

_"Ill think about it. Where u want to meet?"_ She typed, the hum of the car a hypnotic force that was making her fingers slow. A low battery message warning came on the screen. Fortunately, the phone used a standard port that matched her own and Kate plugged it into her car charger cable.

Derek answered with a question of his own. _"How far are you from stiles? I have to see him or no deal"_

Kate wasn't willing to part with any specific information. Better to keep him guessing, make it harder for him to plan. _"youll see plenty. What i said id do before still stands. ill send pics."_

_"Dont hurt him its me you want."_

_"Then tell me where u are,"_ Kate shot back, although she didn't expect him to do so.

Derek didn't even bother dignifying that with a rejection. The long stretch of silence that followed made Kate wonder if she was losing him. Her eyelids felt heavy and she almost didn't care, although she knew that was just the exhaustion talking. 

_"gotto. go send you new meet place son,"_ he sent instead, the abrupt uptick in errors in the message suggesting that something was happening wherever he was that was either distracting his attention or forcing him to move. While Kate could wish this meant that they were lucky enough that one of her people had spotted him, she doubted it. His distraction could be caused by any number of things and Trish would call if there were developments.

_"ok,"_ she shot back. _"will let u know if your BF can still walk by then. xoxo"_

Kate slid the phone back in her pocket, cord and all, hand curled loosely around it so she would feel the vibration of an incoming message. She tipped her head against the window and let her eyes drift shut. She would have pressed Derek harder if they'd been closer to where she'd left Stiles, but she didn't want him to become inured to her threats when she couldn't back them up. After Derek had called her bluff about having Stiles with her in Lutzville, she didn't want to just _pretend_ she was with him, she needed to be able to send photographic evidence of what she was doing to him. _That_ would light a fire under Derek's ass, if he cared about the kid as much as he seemed to.

Given the length of the drive back, Derek would probably send her the new meeting place before they got there, but that didn't mean she was going to let Stiles off the hook so easily. She had a point to make, and the more desperate she kept Derek, the better. He would doubtless try to set up another cute little scenario like the one he had just pulled, but Kate had no intention of dancing to his tune. She was _not_ going to be driving another 5 hours like this to get to wherever he felt like sending her. Derek was going to end up coming to her one way or another, he just didn't realize it yet.

The drive back was the perfect opportunity for her to get enough rest stay on top of her game, so let Derek lay out his little plots and plans while she caught her shut-eye. Let him stew and get nervous if he messaged and she didn't answer for a while. Once she was back with Stiles, she'd have a lot more immediate bargaining leverage and _then_ they could discuss where exactly they were going to meet.

_"What you don't understand, Derek, is that I hold all the cards,"_ she thought, as she drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

  

Stiles wasn't sure how long it was after Kate left that his injured body finally succumbed to unconsciousness, or how much time had passed until he was again dragged back to wakefulness, only that it had taken much too long and lasted far too briefly as far as he was concerned. Honestly, there was a part of him that would have been okay with never waking up again. At least, not when it brought this much pain along with it.

Groggy and disorientated, Stiles winced, blinking under the pop of a camera flash. He wasn't sure why Kate was taking pictures of him again, or when she'd returned.  Ames stood not far away, acting as her shadow, like usual. Stiles glimpsed Mike over in his spot by the door but saw no sign of the other guy, Sven.  Maybe he was out doing something? 

Stiles tried to work out how much time had passed while he'd been out, but the basement was windowless and his notion of time was completely shot to hell. All he knew was that Kate was wearing a different outfit then he last remembered and her hair was a little damp, as if she'd taken time to shower. There was a change in the clatter and hum of the area around him as well; a shift in the roar of whatever industrial systems were running down here. As Stiles became more aware, he decided that the shift in sound, and indeed the presence of the sounds themselves, must mean that whatever building he was being held in was not completely abandoned. A completely abandoned building would have no need for power, or water, or air conditioning, or whatever systems it was that he could hear at work.  

Kate patted his cheek and Stiles shivered, his body dripping wet again from the cold-water dousing that had been used to wake him.

"Well kid, I have good news and I have bad news," she said with a smile that told him he wasn't going to like either.

Already starting to shake even though she had barely touched him yet, Stiles focused on his surroundings instead of whatever awful thing was coming next.  Helpless fear churned in his gut in anticipation of what she might be about to tell him about Derek and he tried not to dwell on that either.

He wondered what kind of building this was. His captors didn't seem particularly worried about anyone finding him accidentally. Was this a dedicated hideout, or just some sparsely used building to which they had access? He suspected the latter. He didn't know exactly where he was, but it couldn't be too very far away from where he'd been captured, unless his first round of unconsciousness had lasted a lot longer than he'd thought.

From what Derek had told him, Kate wasn't from around here and it was therefore unlikely she just happened to maintain a nice old building in the area with a creepy torture basement solely intended for entertaining guests.  Yates might be local for all he knew, but it was pretty clear Kate was keeping his capture secret from the other bounty hunter, so she wouldn't have been using any of his digs.

Therefore, Stiles decided to himself that this was probably just some convenient, infrequently used place they'd found with a basement room secluded enough to suit their purposes. The length of time he'd been held here seemed to indicate they weren't worried about building security so maybe they had some kind of tie with whoever did actually own this place, or maybe they just knew somehow that nobody would come down here and that it was loud and insulated enough that no one would hear him screaming.

Realistically, none of that mattered at all, but letting his brain chew on these speculations and deductions kept him from outright panicking over the fact that Kate was picking up one of the wicked looking knives from the table.

"Bad news is that your boyfriend thinks he can play games with me and doesn't seem to care too terribly about how much that's going to cost _you_. Good news is, you and I get to spend some more quality time together," Kate informed him cheerfully.

Stiles swallowed, his raw throat painfully dry. Well, at least it wasn't actually _all_ bad news, even if his definition of which part was good varied wildly from hers.  If she had Derek, or if Derek was dead, she'd be gloating about it. Him "playing games" meant that he had evaded her.

_Derek was still okay, he didn't fall into her trap._ That relieved Stiles deeply, even as he bit back a whimper of terror when Kate stalked towards him with the knife.

"Quality time, awesome," he rasped sarcastically to cover his fear, babbling because that was preferable to thinking. "Don't suppose that could involve me getting a drink any time soon? You'd be surprised how much of a thirst getting tortured works up, and this whole external application of water thing doesn't really help as much as one might expect."

He flinched when she brought the blade up, but she just used it to cut his right wrist free. Stiles sagged to the left at the unexpected change, his right arm dropping painfully to his side. He was confused by her actions and unsure where this was going. Suddenly blood rushed back into his numb fingers, adding a new agony to his list of hurts. He clenched his teeth around it. "Son of a motherfucking ... _nnngh_!" he groaned, crumpling painfully when Kate unceremoniously cut his other wrist free as well.

Stiles tried and failed to get his feet under him in time to stop himself from falling. His battered body half slid, half toppled onto the hard concrete in a jarring sprawl. He instinctively tried to run, or, well, _crawl_ at this point, but he barely made it to his knees before she was hauling him up and dragging him forward.

Kate was surprisingly strong for her size and relatively petite physic. Stiles' aching limbs had been inactive too long and he stumbled in her grip, trying to get himself sorted out and able to manage little other than not falling flat on his face again. 

Propelling Stiles forward with one hand on the back of his neck and the other on his shoulder, Kate slammed him down face-first onto the end of the table, bending him over it and pushing some of the tools aside to make room.

Horribly alarmed by this nauseatingly vulnerable position, Stiles immediately started struggling. His motions upset a pair of cutting sheers, sending them toppling to the floor with a clatter.

Kate dug her elbow painfully into his back, grinding his burned and bruised chest down against the hard tabletop. In his weakened state, Kate might have been able to manage him even by herself, but she didn't have to. Ames was there in a trice, the big man's weight crushing down onto Stiles and holding him in place as Kate yanked his right arm out to the side and re-bound his wrist to the nearest table leg.

Stiles squirmed and struggled, despite the futility of fighting and how very much it hurt. Tears leaked from his eyes, falling silently down onto the table as Kate searched about for somewhere to secure his left wrist. The table was too long for his arm to reach another leg at this angle.

"Please," he begged, throat closing up.  " _Please..._ " he let the word die into a hopeless whisper. He knew she wouldn't relent and pleading would only give her more satisfaction. Stiles clenched his eyes, his injured, naked body trembling as he was held down over the table.

He knew. He knew what this change in position meant. He knew what she intended for him now.  The tears came harder.

Temporarily giving up on securing his left wrist in favor of simply letting Ames hold that arm down, Kate ran her hand slowly up and down Stiles' back. She leaned over him, speaking into his ear in low, breathy tones.  

"We're going to make a little video for your boyfriend, Stiles," she told him. "Ever done any amateur porn?" she mocked.

Stiles pressed himself tighter to the table. He snorted involuntarily at the sickening irony of her question, because in a way the answer was sort of yes, although it hadn't been intentional. Stiles wished now he hadn't put off talking to his father for so long, because now he'd never have the chance to explain about any of what had happened and he couldn't bear to think about _that_ possibly being the last thing his dad ever saw of him. Of course, what was about to happen right now would undoubtedly be a million times worse.

"Sure, my stage name starts with _Fuck_ and ends with _You_ ," he shot back tersely, trying to blink back his tears and sound angry rather than hopeless and terrified. 

Kate laughed, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck and making his flesh crawl. "Think you have that a little backwards, Stiles. So tell me, do you want the picana first and cock after, or do you want the dick first?  Your choice, sweetheart. Tell me how you want to be filled, how you want to be fucked." She rolled the words suggestively off her tongue.

Stiles gripped the edges of the table, trying not to hyperventilate.  He kept his eyes closed and didn't answer, not going to play her game unless she forced him to. _Oh God, oh God, ohgodohgodohgod..._

With his eyes screwed shut, Stiles didn't realize that something had happened until Ames' grip on him tensed and Kate's body stiffened and pulled away abruptly from his back. He blinked his eyes open, only to find that he still couldn't see a thing. 

The overhead lights were out and the room had gone pitch black. The steady roar and semi-distinct thumping rhythm of the building's vital functions throbbed around them in the darkness, but it was a symphony playing at half volume while missing a bunch of instruments and the change was distinctly audible. Many of the whirring and grinding noises around them had fallen silent. Some of the building's systems seemed to have cut off, while others remained active. Power was obviously on the currently inactive list.

"What the hell?" Stiles heard someone say from across the room. Probably Mike, unless Sven had returned while he was distracted. Even before the words were finished being spoken, there was a rushing, thumping, knocking sound and Stiles abruptly felt water spraying across his back. A distant, but painfully high wailing sound started to strobe.

Stiles had been doused by his captors so many times that it took him a moment to realize what was happening, and that this wasn't their doing. Then he understood that the building's fire alarm and sprinklers were both going off.

The water rushing through the ancient sprinkler system was loud, thumping and squeaking through the pipes as if a chorus of dancing, shrieking mice had descended upon the basement. There was a clatter as something fell off the table and another rattling thump of some kind from somewhere else nearby. It was impossible to tell which sounds were being made by the building and which were a result of his captors trying to move around.

"Fuck! Mike, guard the door!  Ames, stay with the prisoner!" Kate's voice was sharp but collected as she barked orders in the darkness, having to yell to make herself heard. Stiles felt her bump against the back of his legs as she moved behind him.

Ames was still pushing down on his shoulders with a hard grip, but Stiles craned his neck around in time to see Kate momentarily outlined in the darkness. She had managed to extract her cell phone to use as a flashlight. The phone in one hand, her gun in the other, she started to turn in a quick, scanning circle.

Stiles didn't know what was happening, but he was more than happy to try to take advantage of the unexpected chaos. Letting the now drenched and slippery table take his weight with Ames acting as his unwitting anchor, he coiled his legs and kicked out hard behind him.  He caught Kate in the knee and she went sprawling. The phone flew from her hand, plunging the room back into total darkness.

Twisting his body hard and using the leftover momentum from his kick, Stiles tried to wrench himself out from beneath Ames. The big man hung on doggedly. His bulk kept Stiles pinned down, but with water making everything slippery and Stiles' naked skin presenting few convenient handholds, Stiles managed to slither his left arm free. 

There was a hollow pounding sound from somewhere across the room, like fists hitting a solid object. Stiles distantly registered Mike calling out something about the door before Ames landed a solid punch to his shoulder, sending pain flaring through him.  The big man grabbed at the back of his skull, attempting to bang his head into the table, but Stiles was already pressed almost flat to the surface and there wasn't enough force for the impact to do much damage.

The fingers of Stiles' free hand scrabbled about desperately for a weapon. Reaching out as far as he could, he grabbed blindly at the wet, hard outlines of Kate's torture tools on the table beside him. Fist closing around something sharp and pointy, he swung it upwards at Ames, jabbing at any part of the man he could reach from this awkward angle.

Ames grappled with him, cursing. Objects crashed to the floor around them. Voices shouted and there was a loud, repeated popping sound that seemed familiar to Stiles in some way his brain didn't have time to place or process. A gunshot echoed deafeningly in the enclosed space; the muzzle flash a quick, bright flare of light that only served to make the darkness seem even more impenetrable.

Either the gunshot distracted Ames, or Stiles' blind jabbing finally hit something important, because the big man jerked back just enough for Stiles to throw himself sideways and break free. Half rolling, half slithering off the edge of the table to his right, Stiles fell to the floor with a thud, painfully wrenching his right arm in the process since it was still tied to the table leg on that side.

Stiles had so much adrenaline flowing through his body that he barely felt the impact, despite his many injuries.  His pulse was thundering, his fight or flight reflex in complete control. Moving by feel, he crawled quickly under the table in an attempt to hide. Somewhere nearby he heard a series of grunts and crashes. The table shook and jolted. He didn't understand what was happening.

Another gunshot boomed in the darkness, and another. 

Heart in his throat, Stiles tugged desperately at his bound wrist, banging his head against the underside of the table as he tried to wiggle out of the wet rope. It was too tight. He'd lost whatever tool he had been clutching in the fall and he patted desperately around for another. His fingers closed on what turned out to be the handle of the cutting shears he'd knocked off the table during his struggles earlier.  Working blind and one handed, it took Stiles several long, shaky heartbeats to get the sharp end of the damn thing around one side of the rope and a few more for his grip on the wet handles to stop slipping enough that he could leverage them together. In the end, he cut the rope and took a gouge out of his forearm in the process, but he hardly even registered the cut.

Finally free from the table, Stiles scrambled out from beneath it on his hands and knees, crawling blindly out across the wet floor and hoping no one stepped on him. He ran into something hard, wet and dirty and veered away from it like a panicky colt, dropping the cutters somewhere in the process. He was completely turned around and had no idea where he was in the room or what direction he was facing. _Which way was the door?_  

Some rational part of him knew that even if he _could_ somehow find the exit, Kate had made sure it was being guarded. The odds of him blindly groping his way past all of them and somehow making it out without being shot were about zero, but the truth was that he'd rather take a quick bullet in the head then be recaptured, so he had little to lose.   

He struggled to his feet, feeling about for a wall or anything that he could use as a guide. The dark room tilted around him, his head spinning and the complete blackness only adding to his sense of vertigo.

Then, a hand landed on his shoulder. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for putting up with my erratic posting schedule, everyone. I try to post as soon as I get a chapter finished, but sometimes that takes longer than others because, well, _life_. ;P

Stiles whirled around, flailing and striking out blindly in the direction of whoever had grabbed him. His blow scarcely connected and he lost his balance, falling on his ass in a painful sprawl. The hand was immediately on his shoulder again, somehow following him unerringly in the dark. He started to struggle, but was stopped dead by an urgent whisper, barely audible above the thunder of other background noise.

"Stiles, it's me!"  

Stiles was pretty sure he was hearing things, what with the screaming of the pipes and alarms and deafening gunshots and everything. Either that or he was actually still unconscious and all of this was some kind of dream, because he could _swear_ it was Derek's voice that had just hissed those words at him, and that wasn't possible. Frozen by uncertainty and confusion, he didn't fight when a strong hand grabbed his arm and tugged him back to his feet.

"Follow me, don't let go," the voice that could not be Derek's whispered to him again, squeezing Stiles' hand tightly in his own.

Dazed by a numbing sense of unreality and sure now that he was hallucinating, Stiles obeyed. If none of this was real, then it didn't matter much what he did. The blackness around him was complete, and everything felt very far away, but as he shuffled forward a strong sense of familiarity swelled slowly within him, pushing back against the heavy feeling of detachment brought on by shock and trauma.

_Wading through moonlit canyons. Holding onto Derek's hand in the dark_... 

Stiles' grip tightened as if clinging onto reality itself. Even if he couldn't see him, he _knew_ that voice. He _knew_ this hand. He didn't know how, but this _was_ happening. The haze around his mind seemed to lift when he accepted that, and suddenly a million questions were burning through his brain quicker than he could think them.  He bit his lip to physically keep himself from blurting some of them out. Now was not the time.

Derek moved incredibly fast and sure in the darkness, tugging Stiles along with him. Stiles' bare feet slapped and slithered against the wet, gritty concrete. The racket all around them hid the sound of their passage. He struggled to keep up with Derek and not fall. He couldn't see a thing and his natural inclination was to hold back, but he forced himself to trust Derek's guidance and keep the pace.

They didn't go far. Barely half a dozen paces or so and Derek was pulling him into a space that somehow felt smaller then where they had just been. Stiles' side brushed up against something solid. There was no water hitting his skin now, although he could still hear the patter of it falling elsewhere.

The rattling groan of the pipes and the whining chirp of alarms continued, but the clatter of movement and gunfire had stopped. 

"Mike?  Ames?" Kate's voice cautiously calling out to her companions somewhere behind him made Stiles' whole body tense, his fingers digging into Derek's arm. He felt Derek shift beside him, making some kind of silent but rapid motion.

Stiles heard only one of the two men respond, then there was a loud clanging as whatever Derek had thrown rattled and banged against something in the darkness, drawing everyone's attention in that direction.  Gunshots popped.

Taking advantage of the temporary chaos he'd created, Derek grabbed Stiles by the waist and hoisted him upward.  Stiles _just_ managed to bite back a squawk of surprise and pain. Derek's strong arms squeezing around his injured midsection _hurt._

"There's an opening right above you, reach up, climb!" Derek hissed, his voice strained and urgent.

Gritting his teeth, Stiles groped over his head and nearly collided with the lip of something hard and metal. It was indeed a square shaped opening, just about the right size for a man. With Derek boosting him he was able to grab hold of the edge, but his arms trembled and he couldn't pull himself up.  Normally the action would not have been a problem, but after everything he'd been through, Stiles' badly strained shoulders and fatigued muscles simply refused to support his weight no matter how desperately he tried to make them do so.

Realizing the problem, Derek pushed him up farther. Bending and getting his shoulder under Stiles' butt, he heaved upward, holding onto his legs. Offering arms and shoulders as platforms, he let Stiles climb him. Once Stiles was high enough to hook his elbows over the sides of the hole, he was able to leverage himself the rest of the way up.

It was still dark on the other side of the hatch, but the gloom was a little less impenetrable. Stiles was able to make out that he was in a narrow, square space that seemed to stretch out into infinity above him. A faint, murky light filtered down from above.  Even with minimal visibility, the grooves on the wall and the thick, cording lines of cables descending from above told Stiles he was in an elevator shaft. Derek must have boosted him up through an emergency access hatch and he was now sitting on top of one of the cars.

Stiles realized with a jolt that he'd _thought_ the grating he was tied to earlier looked like the outside of an old fashioned elevator cage. He'd had his back to it the whole time so he'd never gotten a proper look, but this must be the shaft for that elevator. Judging by the badly rusted cable hitch and the thick layer of dirt caked into the corners where the edges of the elevator car met the wall, the lift was no longer in service. It had probably been years since the car had budged from its resting place on the building's lowest level.

Derek jumped up and caught hold of the hatch's lip, heaving himself up through the opening.  Stiles could just make out the other man's outline as he rolled to a crouch across from the teen, balancing himself with one arm against the wall. Dark water dripped about Derek, his breath sounding harsh and labored in the small, echoing confines of the shaft.

Stiles started to say something, but Derek pressed a hand over his mouth for silence and pulled him to his feet. For one brief, unexpected moment, Stiles found himself enveloped in a surprisingly fierce and yet gentle hug. Then Derek was turning him around and pushing him towards a knotted rope which Stiles now saw was dangling down the side of the shaft.

Stiles bit his lip with dismay as he craned his neck up, following the rope with his eyes. It passed through a partially open set of elevator doors the next floor up. Steeling himself, he stubbornly reached out for the rope. It was only one floor, but the truth was that in his current condition it might as well have been Mt. Everest. His body had taken too much abuse, especially his strained and wrenched shoulder joints. He was never going to be able to climb that far.

Derek took the rope away from him and shook his head. "I'll pull you up," he whispered and then he was gone, rapidly climbing hand over hand into the gloom above.

Faintly through the open hatch beside him, Stiles could hear Kate and Mike calling to one another over the ongoing racket.  He couldn't make out all the words, and he wasn't sure what had happened to Ames, but it sounded like maybe the big man was down.

A faint but frightening glow sprung to life in the room below, a reddish light filtering dimly through the hatch beside him. Someone below had finally gotten hold of a light source. Given the ruddy tint and the way the shadows danced and flickered, it was probably a flare.

They were running out of time.

Derek disappeared through the elevator doors above. Moving as quickly and quietly as he could, Stiles wrapped the thick rope around him, looping it under his armpits and fastening it in a quick knot.  His fingers faltered as he heard Kate calling his name.

"Stiles?  Oh Stiles... come out, sweetheart.  Come out now or it's going to be very, _very_ bad." She sounded incredibly pissed. His heart lurched and stuttered in his chest and his hands fumbled against the knot, shaking in terror.

Derek heaved upward. Stiles winced in pain as the rope dug into his injuries. He gripped onto the cord in front of him and tried to take as much of his weight as he could with his arms, his bare feet bracing against the side of the shaft for added purchase. Dirty water was trickling down from the opening above, pattering against his head and shoulders and making the wall slick under his feet.

With Kate's voice at his back, he tried to ascend faster. His heart was pounding with the need to claw his way out of there. Every heartbeat seemed an eon as he struggled upward, the rope creaking and shuddering.  

"Mike?" the name was a sharp question on Kate's lips.

"Nobody got out," he snapped, as if repeating something he'd already asserted. " _We_ can'teven get out, the fucking door is fucking jammed!" Mike was shouting to be heard, indicating he and Kate were some distance apart. He sounded a lot more agitated and upset than Kate.  

" _Stiii-les_ ," Kate's voice had gone dangerously sing-song. "Who else is with you Stiles?  Is that Derek?  Derek, I don't know how you found us, but come on out now and maybe I'll be nice and kill the kid quick. Make me come find you and I will kill him very, _very_ slowly. While you watch..."

Stiles felt relief loosen the fist in his chest as he realized that Kate hadn't been calling out to him because she knew where he was, but rather because she _didn't_. She was still searching the basement for them, apparently thinking they were hiding somewhere among the shadowy expanse of twisting pipes, ducts and storage areas.  Derek must have closed the grating to the elevator behind them to make their departure point less obvious, but Stiles was sure it wouldn't be long before Kate figured it out.

The rope Stiles clutched was starting to tremble more and more, but whether it was his own shaking, or Derek struggling with his weight, he wasn't sure. Kate called out again as he finally reached the top. Stiles was too far away now to catch what she said or to whom it was directed, but her tone was sharp and the light emanating from the hatch below increased. He had a terrible feeling she'd already turned her attention towards the elevator. 

Derek reached down and grabbed him, hauling him up and onto the floor in front of the elevator. The power was also out on this floor and the sprinkler system was on full blast. The fire alarm was much louder here, shrieking with an ear-splitting, repeated whine. Small, strangely shaped windows set high in the walls at the end of the hall emitted enough light to see by, indicating that it must be daylight outside.

Stiles flopped on the wet floor, breathing hard as he struggled to untie himself. Adrenaline still pounded through him but his limbs felt weak. His body was shaking from exertion and adrenal overdrive.

The rope they'd just used was fastened to the sturdy but ancient cage that protected the lift entrance. As soon as Stiles was up and the rope was no longer hanging into the shaft, Derek threw his weight against the rusty old doors, forcing them closed. Even back when it had been operational, this must have been only a service elevator; it looked too small for anything else. The doors appeared far more accustomed to sitting closed than open and they slid back into place without much protest.

Stiles supposed Derek was trying to buy them more time by making which floor they were on less obvious from below. Probably a good idea since they couldn't be sure whether Kate had other people in the building she could call. As for Kate herself, she was going to have some issues trying to follow them immediately. Even if she had already discovered their escape route, she didn't have an easy way to climb up the shaft after them and apparently the basement door was jammed. More of Derek's handiwork, Stiles could only assume.  He didn't expect any of those obstacles to hold her for long, but hopefully it would be long _enough_.

His fingers trembled so badly it took him two tries to get his own knot undone, but he managed. There was an edge of elation starting to creep into his stomach that he knew was still severely premature at this point, but couldn't be helped. He was starting to realize that they might actually make it out of this. _Holy improbable chances, Batman._  

Beside him, Derek ripped something off his face, shoving it back on his head before turning to Stiles with both concern and urgency. "Stiles, can you walk? We have to hurry."

Stiles realized with shocked delight that Derek was wearing _his_ night vision goggles. The ones he'd saved up for a few years back and had brought to school with him for the purpose of having nighttime paintball wars with Scott around the quadrangle ... until they accidentally shot a professor returning late from grading papers, which had quickly put an end to _that_ particular activity.  Derek must have found the goggles in his jeep, and they weren't all he'd found.

A huge grin split Stiles' face as Derek helped him to his feet and he realized that the older man was wearing the old army surplus tactical vest he'd modified to work with his paintball gear and had his paintball rifle slung over one shoulder by its strap. Stiles kept the gun and its CO2 cartridges wrapped up and shoved to the very back and bottom of his trunk to avoid any problems while traveling. His dad was a cop, he knew better than to have something that looked so much like an assault rifle sitting out in the open if he was ever pulled over. Apparently, Derek had managed to not only find the gun, ammunition, and cartridges, he'd also figured out how to make them work.

_That_ explained the popping sound he'd heard in the basement. Derek must have come down through the elevator shaft after the lights went out. He'd used the night vision goggles to give himself an advantage and the paintball gun to create chaos. The little plastic balls the gun fired weren't remotely lethal, but they did hurt like a son of a bitch. If you got nailed with a couple of those in the dark, when you didn't know what was happening, it could be pretty disconcerting and perhaps even make you think you were being shot at for real.

Stiles wavered on his feet, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed by all the awesome. Derek steadied him and Stiles decided that his tac vest looked _so_ much better and more natural on the older man's broad frame. Derek was dripping and streaked with dark, ruddy smears of dirt and rust but he managed to make that look good too.

It took Stiles' dazed mind a moment to realize Derek was speaking to him and another to parse what had just been said into something his brain could understand. Finally deciding that Derek had asked him again if he could walk, Stiles nodded at him, grinning blearily.  "Dude, to get out of this place, I can _run,_ " he assured.

_Running_ might have been a little overly ambitious, but Stiles _did_ scramble along as fast as he could. He followed Derek down what seemed a very long, never-ending hallway full of snaking turns and grimy puddles. Light from the few intermittent windows up by the ceiling was thin, casting the passages in deep shadow. Stiles couldn't seem to focus. He was aware of their surroundings, but details weren't penetrating his brain. Everything was starting to blur about him.

Footsteps and the sound of voices belatedly made Stiles' heart jump up into his throat, but Derek was already grabbing him, pulling him back into a doorway and pressing them both against the wall. Stiles tipped his head back against the hard surface, hoping the wailing alarm covered his ragged breathing.

"Aw, fucking hell, this is the wrong floor, genius," a voice said, the footsteps drawing to a halt on the other side of the wall.  Stiles didn't recognize the voice, which had a southern twang to it. "Told you we wanted 2, not 1. Fuck, it's dark."

"That's just jacked. Why wouldn't the main floor be the _first_ floor and why the hell are the stairs labeled different than the elevators? Old buildings, man," another voice said in irritation. "Ten to one there isn't any fire and this is just another crappy malfunction. Shit, they better not expect us to finish shift after nearly drowning us like this..."  The voices receded away as the footsteps retreated again. 

After a minute, Derek stuck his head out to see if the coast was clear.

Stiles blinked water from his eyelashes. They were in some sort of room, but it was all a dim blur that his mind seemed unwilling to bother trying to process. Instead, it chose to focus on the notion that some floor in this building must in fact still be a legitimate work place of some kind. Those people didn't sound like they were involved in his and Derek's situation, they just sounded cranky and lost.  _Looks like somebody didn't pay attention during fire drills._

That reminded him of standing in the parking lot in front of his old high school, milling about with the other students after a drill or after somebody had pulled the alarm... suddenly Stiles frowned, blinking up at the water still spraying down on them. 

_Huh..._ _wait, why were the sprinklers going off?_ That did not usually happen just because you pulled a fire alarm, and even if the main power breakers were tripped, shouldn't there have been emergency lights or something?Stiles didn't realize he'd spoken those thoughts aloud until Derek pulled his head back from the doorway and answered him.

"I spent six months as an assistant maintenance worker in an old building with systems like this one, once. I know a few tricks. Coast is clear, come on." He led Stiles off in the opposite direction from the way the voices had headed. After a few more turns they reached an old stairwell. The door had had a chain across it once, which was now on the floor, looking recently broken. 

Derek pushed the door open and then they were dashing up a flight of stairs... or trying to, only Stiles didn't manage that part too well. It wasn't his fault, the stupid stairs kept moving and lurching about under him, only, okay, maybe it _wasn't_ the stairs, maybe it _was_ him, since Derek did not seem to be experiencing the same earthquake he was. Next thing he knew, Derek had scooped him up and he was being carried up the remaining stairs at a quick, jarring jog.

Stiles held on, his mind lagging so far behind that he didn't think to protest until they'd reached the upper landing and Derek was already setting him down with a pained grunt. He felt aware of everything and yet nothing. He felt like an ancient library computer that nobody had maintained in forever, now attempting to run too many applications at once. He clutched at the heavy black mesh on the back of Derek's vest for guidance, hanging on like a kindergartener afraid of being lost. _Get it together Stilinski!!_

There was a man on the floor near the door. _Sven_ , Stiles realized with a sense of detachment as he stepped over his sprawled body. No blood, so he was probably just unconscious. Was it terrible that Stiles didn't particularly care either way?

Derek lead him quickly out of the stairwell through an exterior door and into dazzling sunlight. Stiles blinked, shading his eyes at the glare. Gravel dug into the soles of his feet. It was almost too bright to look around after all the time he'd just spent in the dark, but he was vaguely aware they were in a narrow, weed choked pathway that ran along beside a squat old brick building. The building had an unusual shape and looked like it had once housed some kind of manufacturing operation. Maybe it still did.

They hurried along the side of the building and slipped out into a rear lot full of old equipment and trash, surrounded by a rusting chain link fence. This was obviously not a well used entrance and there was no one else back here, although there was a murmur of indistinct voices from somewhere nearby.  Stiles supposed whatever workers had been here had all exited through the front of the building. In the distance, he could hear approaching sirens.

There was a part of Stiles' mind that wouldn't stop whirring and spitting questions at him, even as he struggled to keep his focus on his surroundings and the much more important task of getting the hell out of Dodge. His ADHD was mixing problematically with his state of semi-shock and adrenaline overdrive, making his thoughts fly in a million directions at once. 

He wondered why Kate had chosen to hold him in an occupied building. They must have connections to it somehow, or maybe she just hadn't expected to be there as long as they had. Kate seemed really buttoned up about most things, but she had obviously misjudged her prey in this instance. True, she had had sheer numbers on her side, but even so, Stiles got the feeling that if she'd considered any kind of rescue attempt an actual possibility, she would have secured both him and their location much more thoroughly. Apparently, past experience had led her to think that Derek would run and hide, not find them and attack.   _Come to that, how **did** Derek find them? _

Derek ducked down through a break in the chain link fence and Stiles followed. He realized as he scrambled between the sharp metal wires that there was blood mingled with the remnants of water dripping from the fingertips of both his hands. The cut across the inside of his right forearm that he'd made with the clippers was bleeding sluggishly, but didn't seem terribly worrisome. There was no cut on his left arm. Looking down he saw that crimson was also streaked with the water beading down his left flank. Stiles blinked, having to look away to keep the world from going woozy.

He stumbled forward, following Derek numbly along a strip of deserted gravel road by instinct more than conscious thought. He hurt everywhere, but couldn't tell where the blood was coming from.  He didn't have time to think about it further because when he looked up again, he saw that Derek had stopped beside a jumble of old equipment.

Pushing aside a clutter of rusting camouflage, Derek uncover the blessed, beautiful shape of his jeep. The familiar sight anchored Stiles to reality somehow and he pushed himself forward faster, heedless of the gravel jabbing and cutting his feet or the way the burns between his thighs shrieked at him each time they rubbed together.

Derek chucked the paintball gun inside the car and swung into the driver's seat. The goggles on his head scraped the ceiling and he quickly tugged them off, tossing them onto the passenger seat as well. He was pushing the key into the ignition as Stiles arrived.

Stiles _almost_ protested not being the driver, until he remembered he was still currently naked and had no idea where they were or which way to go. He dove into the back seat instead, shoving aside the mess of articles tumbled about in the space and taking sanctuary in the familiar confines.

_Hey old friend, never thought I'd see you again._ Stiles' stomach tightened at the sound of the familiar engine turning over, tears welling up from nowhere and baffling him. _Good God, why was he crying **now?!** That made no sense.  _

He struggled not to get thrown about, catching himself on his hands as Derek punched the gas a little over-enthusiastically, exiting the lot with a spinning of tires and spitting of gravel. Righting himself, Stiles grabbed for one of the nearby blankets and wrapped it around his sore, naked body. He clutched at the warm, scratchy fabric, curling his knees up to his chest and hugging himself tightly. The deeply familiar and comforting scent of old, dusty, sun-baked jeep surrounded him. He was shaking and that stupid urge to cry was still making his throat tight and his eyes blurry. 

_He was alive. He was alive. Holy shit._

They weren't out of the woods just yet, however.  A curse from the front seat and a sharp turn that threw him against the door drew Stiles' attention back to Derek and the escape that was still in progress.

"What? What?" he demanded, looking around wildly.

"I think we've been spotted, someone's following." Derek's voice was clipped and tense. The car jolted as he drove over a curb and made another sharp turn.

Bracing himself against the seat and the door, Stiles managed not to get thrown again, wincing as the bouncing about set all his injuries to aching.  Climbing to his knees on the seat, he peered out the back and saw that there was indeed a dark colored SUV powering up fast behind them. _Shit! Shit, shit, shit!_

Stiles caught a glimpse of the lone driver, but didn't recognize him. Kate must have had someone else around, besides Mike, Ames and Sven. Wherever he'd been, he'd either spotted them, or, more likely, Kate had called him as soon as she realized Stiles and Derek were no longer in the basement.

Stiles more than half expected the man to lean out the window and start shooting at them, but for some reason he didn't.  The jeep slowed and Stiles twisted back around towards Derek in alarm, only to have his vision filled with flashing lights.  Sirens wailed and horns blared.  Derek had brought them out and around to the street in front of the factory. A fire truck and two police cars were just in the process of turning into the parking lot, sparse traffic on both sides of the road giving way for them. The parking lot held a number of cars and a small crowd of dripping people milling about, watching the proceedings.

The man behind them seemed unwilling to draw attention by doing more than simply following them as they rolled past the chaos of official vehicles and gawkers. Traffic at the intersection ahead slowed to a stop, giving right-of-way to the ambulance who turned against the light, running the red cautiously with its lights and siren blaring.

The ambulance passed and traffic sluggishly started forward once more.  The light was yellow by the time they reached the intersection. The car ahead of them sped up and powered through it. Derek followed close on its bumper, barreling into the intersection at the same moment the light went red.

There was an angry chorus of horns behind them as they sped away on the relatively clear stretch of road beyond the light, but as Stiles clutched the back of the seat and looked out the rear window, he could see that the ire wasn't being directed at them. 

The SUV on their tail had attempted to follow them through the red light and nearly struck another vehicle entering the intersection from the green-lit side. The SUV managed to break in time, coming to an awkward, skewed halt partially over the white line in front of the light. The pickup truck with which it had nearly collided swerved a little, blazing by with an angry, warning blast on its horn, followed closely by the car behind it who was honking at both of them. Hell hath no fury like a driver wronged, and the symphony of horns was joined by the cars in the opposite lane who had to swerve in turn to avoid the slaloming pickup. 

Stiles watched the intersection as it receded swiftly behind them. Despite the series of near misses, no one slowed down and he saw the backed up cross-traffic flow through from both directions, like water released from a damn. Perhaps the motorists were already annoyed at the slow down caused by the emergency vehicles, or perhaps they were just naturally stubborn in their right of way; whatever the case, they gave no quarter to the SUV partially overhanging the intersection. The slow but steady stream of vehicles prevented their pursuer from forcing his way across without risking another accident, or potentially drawing the attention of the nearby police.

Derek took advantage of the time and distance this bought them. Driving as quickly as he could without breaking any laws or drawing any unwanted attention themselves, he made a quick right turn onto another street, taking them out of view.  Almost immediately he turned again onto a different street, then another, and another, angling away by the most circuitous route possible until it was highly unlikely their pursuer would be able to find them again by sight.

Stiles saw a highway sign flick by and soon the city was dropping away and they were flying down the open road along with a light smattering of other vehicles. Stiles scanned the road behind them, looking out the windows, tensing up at the sight of every large, dark colored vehicle that appeared, but after a few minutes he began to realize they must have actually been able to lose their pursuer, at least for the time being. _Holy shit... was this really happening?  Had they **really** managed to pull this off? _  

It seemed like it should have been harder somehow, but maybe that was just because after Derek's stories and his own experiences, he'd built Kate and her people up in his mind into this omniscient, HYDRA-like organization with people watching everywhere, capable of flooding any area at a moment's notice with cars, choppers and spy drones to hunt them down. However, while they clearly _were_ dangerous, connected and resourceful, it apparently wasn't quite to _that_ level, thank God.

Perhaps if Kate hadn't still on some level been thinking of Derek as the terrified teenager she'd been hunting for years she'd have been better prepared and things would have gone very differently. She'd seen him as prey, not a threat and obviously hadn't been expecting him to go all John McClane on her. The fact that she was treating this like a search operation and not thinking defensively had put the element of surprise temporarily on their side. Stiles was sure she wouldn't make that mistake again, but as the landscape rushed by outside the window, his shakiness and stupor were giving way to a lightheaded sense of pure elation.

Turning around to sit properly on the seat and give his hurting body a reprieve, he eyed the back of Derek's head, noting the way his dark hair curled into clinging, half-moon spikes against his neck when it was wet.

"Dude," he said, a little disbelieving as he ran his hand through his own wet mop of hair, shaking his head in awe. " _DUDE!_  Oh my God, just... Oh my _God._ That was _incredible._ You were total ninja back there!! I can't believe you just stormed the castle like that and took on a room full of gun-toting bad guys with like, night vision goggles and paintball gear!  You're my freaking hero, man, that was _awesome_.  I can't believe I got to get honest-to-god _rescued_. How often does that even happen?" he babbled enthusiastically, an effusive feeling of relief and joy mingling with the remnants of adrenaline swirling through his system and making him feel positively giddy. 

Now that his slightly soggy brain had finally caught up with the fact that they were at least temporarily in the clear he was able to appreciate what they'd been through as an adventure and not just a nightmare. If his emotions seemed a little manic and all over the place right now, he felt he could be forgiven, under the circumstances.

Derek ducked his head a little, glancing back at Stiles before quickly fixing his gaze on the road again. Stiles thought that maybe the back of his neck was blushing just a little. He seemed both pleased and embarrassed and uncertain how to respond.

"You saved me first; back in the canyons. I ... I was just returning the favor," Derek pointed out in a quiet tone that was going for gruff but didn't quite make the grade.  "I'm sorry I said the things I did; that I didn't listen. I'm sorry you got hurt," the last words were more of a whisper, guilt making the other man's voice catch.

Stiles leaned his head back against the seat, holding the blanket around him and trying to shake off the ever-present dizzy sensation.  "'S'okay," he slurred slightly, waving the apology away. Given what Derek had just done for him, he'd have forgiven him anything. "I get why you freaked, and Kate being a stone cold, sadistic bitch isn't your fault. God, but I was so freaked when you told her you wanted to trade..." he admitted. "I thought you were going to be stupid and it was all gonna be for nothing ... guess I should have given you more credit." He smiled, forcing back the darkness of the memories that tried to ensnare him in favor of the relief of being free. "What was that all about, anyway? How'd you find me?" he asked, squinting up at the worn ceiling. "You follow us back from the canyons or something?"

Derek gave his head a minute shake. His shoulders were curiously hunched. "No," he admitted. "At first, I just ran. I didn't know where they'd taken you. I wasn't even sure you were still alive, until I called."

"And? Then? So?" Stiles prompted when Derek did not continue. "Details, man, details!  You _cannot_ pull off the most awesome real life dungeon-break I've ever seen and not tell me how you did it."

Derek chuckled slightly, although his shoulders were still hunched, his body language strangely droopy. He kept checking the rearview mirror in a way that told Stiles he was still worried about pursuit.

"It wasn't all that. There was a lot of luck involved," he warned. "I knew Kate would never let you go, but I got her to come out by promising to meet. I put a messaging app on the phone you took off that guard and left it where I'd told her to go so I could talk to her from your phone without being traced. I couldn't be sure she'd really bring you, and she didn't, so I had to go with plan B.

"I tried to keep her talking, bluffing her about setting up another meet in hopes that she'd keep the phone powered up and turned on, waiting to hear from me. I figured she'd go back to you, to make good on the threats she was making if nothing else," Derek trailed off, sounding a little haunted. "Uh, I hope she didn't have time to ... I mean ... I tried to get there as soon as I could, but, I know she got there first and ... she said she would ... to you ... she didn't ...?" he seemed awkwardly unable to finish the question and immediately sorry that he'd even tried to ask.

"Nah, it's cool," Stiles said a little too quickly, able to guess all too easily what kinds of things Kate had promised to do to him. "She was all fired up to do some hate porn before you showed up, but that didn't happen. _SO_... the phone. You wanted her to keep the phone on?" he pushed, ungracefully attempting to hurry past the question in Derek's voice. He couldn't yet think about the things Kate had done to him; or the things she'd threatened to do. It was a well of darkness into which he did not wish to look because it all still felt a little too near, a little too real. Mental avoidance seemed the best policy.

"Yeah," Derek's voice was soft, almost breathy. The car wavered slightly on the road. He righted it and shook his head. "Yeah, the messaging app wasn't all I put on there. I put ... put this kid tracking, snooper app on there too and set your phone up as the "parent" so I could follow her from a distance. The service was touted to run as a mostly invisible, background thing, but I was just damn lucky she didn't check the phone out more thoroughly, or turn it off." Derek's words were slow, as if being pulled from him with deliberation.

"So basically, this just gets awesomer and awesomer. Guess she didn't think you'd be trying to trace _her,_ " Stiles said with no small amount of satisfaction, but he squinted thoughtfully at Derek's back. Something was off about him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Derek brushed the question aside.  "Oh, they'll probably be charges on your bill, that app wasn't free. You probably should require a password for purchases, by the way."

Stiles snorted a half-laugh, then curled forward at the pain it caused.  "Ha! Ow... ow... money well spent, trust me. You know, that was awfully James Bond for a guy with no phone of his own. When did you suddenly get so tech savvy?"

Derek rolled his eyes. "Why do you assume I wouldn't be?  Just because I don't have a phone _right now_ doesn't mean I haven't ever used one," he pointed out dryly.  "I've been on the run most of my life. Pay-as-you-go disposable phones have pretty much been my main method of connecting to ... well, everything.  There was barely any reception out by the Station; you could make calls but nothing else. I use phones mostly for the internet connection since I don't exactly have an overflowing contact list. Without that, there was no point in wasting the money. So, _yes_ , I know how to use a phone, and how to use Google to look up things like: _how do I message someone without them knowing my number_ or _how do I trace someone's phone_." His tone was a trifle sardonic. "I'm just lucky they weren't tracing _your_ phone, or I'd have been screwed."

"They don't know who I am; they couldn't track it if they wanted to," Stiles said simply, not wanting to dwell on that either but glad at least that his reticence to speak had done some good. Of course, he was sure Kate would make it her mission to find out everything about him _now_ , so there was no guarantee his anonymity would hold much longer... Stiles felt the squeeze of panic fluttering at the base of his throat and roughly shoved those thoughts aside. _Not thinking about that just yet._ _Nope._

"So, you used your unexpected mad skills, followed her back to me, and then just, what, Rambo-ed your way in?" he asked, grinning again despite himself at the mental image that conjured up.  Derek shirtless with a machine gun would look _totally_ hot. Derek shirtless in any context was pretty much brain-melting. He let his mind stick on that image and stubbornly ignored everything else.

The blanket was starting to get too hot in the warm car. His A/C was crap on a good day and he wasn't even sure Derek had it on. His burns throbbed mercilessly and Stiles shifted uncomfortably, starting to cast about for something to wear beside the blanket. There were plenty of clothes drifting around back here, and no longer being quite so naked and vulnerable sounded _really_ good.

"More or less," Derek said simply, turning the car off onto an exit ramp. He was driving one-handed, his other somewhere out of view.  "Kate and her fucking pictures..." he huffed harshly, shaking his head. "First time we talked, she wanted to gloat so I got her to send me a picture of you, hoping it'd show me something about where you were being held. It did. She sent another after she returned, so I knew you were still in the same place. The GPS gave me the building, the pictures told me you were in the basement. I could seethe old elevator behind you and the building wasn't that big. I'd found your paintball stuff in the car, so I just went in and ... improvised," he admitted. "A lot."

Derek pulled the jeep to a halt in an empty corner of a rest stop parking lot.

"Well A+ on the improv!" Stiles said sincerely as he extracted a t-shirt and a loose pair of sleep pants from the mess of his things. He didn't think he could stand to wear anything stiffer right now, his skin was much too raw. Wiggling into the pants was an exercise in agony and the shirt wasn't much better.

Breathing hard and trying to deal, he looked out the window with a frown. "But, um, shouldn't we keep moving?  I mean..."  his words cut off as he turned to find Derek slumped sideways in the front seat, curled forward against the dash as if in great pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a moment to mention that Derek's vastly different life experiences in this AU (being human, growing up on the run, and so on) have caused him to acquire different skill sets and different types of knowledge than in the series. I firmly believe that Derek, canon or otherwise, is capable of being smart and resourceful, they're just smart and resourceful in slightly different ways because of the variances in upbringing and setting in this alternate universe. :)
> 
> \------------  
>  _Additional note because some ppl have asked: if you're on tumblr, I go by[Inderlander](http://inderlander.tumblr.com/) over there. _


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a nice, long chapter to try to make up for my awful tardiness in posting... :)
> 
> Please be advised, later parts of this chapter touch on some of the things that happened in Stiles' past, which weren't very pleasant and involve mentions of a more or less abusive / manipulative relationship and some slightly dub-con oral sex. Please be warned if that's triggery for you.

"Derek!" Stiles cried in alarm. Forgetting his own pain for the moment, he scrambled forward, leaning between the seats and twisting to get a good look at the other man's slumped form.  "Derek!?"

Derek tried to wave him off. "It's all right," he panted, his voice tense with pain. "I just ... can't drive anymore. We need to switch. Can you?"

Stiles didn't immediately understand the problem. Then, to his horror, he realized that Derek's hand was stained red and his jeans were wet with something other than water. One thigh was completely soaked through with blood. For a few horrible instants Stiles thought Derek had been shot in the leg and was bleeding out from the artery there, an injury he knew to be almost certainly fatal. Fear gripped his heart like a vice.

"Oh God, Oh God, you're hit... they hit you, you got shot..." Stiles babbled frantically, pressing urgently against Derek's thigh, but finding no visible bullet hole in his jeans. Then he realized the blood was coming from higher up. The waist of Derek's jeans and the hem of his tee, visible from beneath the tactical vest, were also stained with it.  Stiles pushed Derek back against the seat with trembling hands, trying to get a better look.

" _STILES,_ can you drive?" Derek was trying to be forceful, but his voice was strained and it damaged the effect. He batted Stiles' hands away. "We have to keep moving..."

Stiles couldn't think about that; he couldn't think about anything but all the blood and how deathly pale Derek looked as he sat there trying to scowl at him. Derek must have been bleeding this whole time. It must have been _his_ blood on Stiles earlier, transferred to his body when Derek carried him up the stairs.  How could he have not seen it before?  How had he been _that_ out of it? 

"Why didn't you say something?!  Why the fuck didn't you say something?! " Stiles demanded with a thick voice, wriggling over the seat to join Derek in the front. That movement hurt incredibly in his condition, but he didn't care. He balanced on the edge of the passenger seat, practically crawling into the other man's lap in his urgency.  Ignoring Derek's half-hearted attempts to fend him off, he fumbled hurriedly with the clasps on the tac vest, finally unfastening the front and ripping it open.  

The sturdy black mesh and nylon vest with its rows of pockets, straps and clips hid its secrets well, but underneath, Derek's formerly white tank-top was awash in crimson. It took a minute, but Stiles finally found the source.  Or, more accurately, _sources_ , plural. Because _one_ ghastly, panic-inducing injury clearly wasn't enough, no, Derek had to do _everything_ in style.

There was a nasty looking puncture wound near Derek's right shoulder joint that was pumping blood, and a jagged gash carved horizontally across the left side of his rib cage, six inches or so below his armpit.  The second wound had clearly been made by a bullet. It didn't look too deep, although _"too deep"_ was pretty relative.  Blame movies and TV shows, Stiles supposed, but somehow he'd always imagined "just being grazed" to be a whole lot less bloody and awful looking.  He could see the white of one of Derek's rib bones amid the blood and torn flesh, and... _oookay, no, don't look too hard at that._  

Stiles pressed his eyes shut as he felt everything go kind of dim and faded around him. Shaking his head as if to dislodge the woozy sensation, he quickly forced them open again, blinking rapidly. _He was not going to faint damn it!  Not happening._

Gulping air through his mouth, he forced himself to examine the injury closer.  The bullet had cut Derek to the bone, but it was still ultimately a glancing shot. As far as Stiles could tell it hadn't actually broken the bone it exposed, even if it looked to him like it was bleeding as lustily as if it had been a shot through the heart.

The shoulder injury in contrast was deeper, but less messy. It punctured clean through from front to back, but the little exit wound near his shoulder blade wasn't at all big enough to be from a bullet and the tear in front was too long, too precise. A bullet would probably have torn through muscle and bone with a lot more damage. 

"Fuck, you got stabbed!" Stiles realized aloud with shock as he palpated around the injury. "How the hell did you get stabbed?!" Leaning between the seats, he grabbed the first cloth thing he could reach from the messy tangle back there, which happened to be one of his t-shirts. Wadding it up into a roll, he pressed one end against Derek's bleeding side and the other against the slowly gushing wound in his shoulder. 

Derek tried to shrug, then seemed to think better of it. "In the basement. Big guy, built like a Mack truck," he panted.

"Ames?" Stiles' eyes widened as he tried to work out some better arrangement of the make-shift bandage by adding another shirt to the mix. Finally he tore them into halves in order to work with them easier.

Derek tilted his head indicating he had no idea. "Didn't really ... get his name," he said dryly, wincing as Stiles pressed on his injuries. At least he was no longer resisting the treatment. "He was going after you. I hit him, but he didn't go down easy. We grappled, he pulled a knife, I knocked his head against the floor."

"Rock wins over scissors," Stiles muttered, helping Derek ease out of the bloody tac vest so he could better secure the make-shift dressings.  As he pealed it away, he realized that the stab wound coincided with where the vest ended. Possibly, the tough, army-grade fabric had helped deflect the strike outward, towards less vital areas.

Stiles realized Derek had climbed ropes, hauled him up elevator shafts and generally carried him around a _lot,_ and all the while the other man was injured and bleeding into the vest. Stiles wasn't sure if he was impressed or annoyed. He settled for both.

"You still should have said something, dude," he added, calmer now, although still very worried.  "What were you going to do, drive until you passed out from blood loss?"

" _No,_ that's why I pulled off," Derek pointed out, giving him a wan version of his usual stink-eye glare.  "Figured maybe you could drive while I ... patched up." He broke off with a groan, biting his lip as Stiles knotted the dressings as tight as he could.

"To be honest, I didn't really feel it before," he admitted, breathing through his teeth. "I don't even know when I got this," he gestured faintly at his side. His face was ashen and his eyelids looked heavy. "I'll be okay," he assured. "Just need to patch up and rest."  

Stiles supposed he understood how adrenaline and sheer, driving terror could keep you going to the point that you didn't take much note of your injuries until later. He was experiencing more or less the same phenomenon and was only now beginning to appreciate just how much he hurt.

"Yeah, okay, but we need to go somewhere where we can patch up a lot better than this," he said with a frown, not at all pleased with the bandaging job he'd managed thus far. It had slowed the bleeding considerably, but it wasn't adequate for more than a stop-gap measure.  

Climbing stiffly out of the car, Stiles helped Derek shift over to the passenger seat so he could take over driving. Derek was moving slow now and he needed Stiles' support, but he managed the move all right. He was looking really rough, but was alert enough to able to keep pressure on his own injuries.

"Stiles," Derek caught the boy's wrist, concern and frustration edging his features at his own weakness.  "We shouldn't keep the car. They know it now, they'll be looking."

Stiles sucked his cut and swollen lower lip in thoughtful agitation. Derek was right, but at the same time he couldn't bear to abandon his jeep. It wasn't practical right now, anyway. Neither he nor Derek were in any condition to be stealing a new car and everything they might need was still in this one. Literally staggering from pain and fatigue, Stiles decided on another stop gap measure.

"Yeah, okay, okay, but look, we can't... we can't do that right now. I'll get us some new plates, all right?  That will help a little. Then we'll find somewhere to patch up and - and figure it out from there," he promised.  It was the best he could do; he really couldn't think beyond that right now. Crouching in the open car doorway beside Derek, he gave the hand on his wrist a reassuring little squeeze.

Derek looked both worried and guilty. "Stiles wait," he rasped gently, a distinctly protective note in his voice. He reached out, the back of his knuckles ghosting across Stiles' cheekbone with surprising tenderness. "I'm sorry, I'm an idiot ... are ... are you all right?"

Stiles blinked, eyes suddenly filling with tears in a way that let him know his screwed up emotions were still riding way too close to the surface, despite his attempts to keep himself focused and distracted. He pressed his eyes quickly shut; breathing deep and turning his head into Derek's touch, letting Derek briefly cup his cheek. His face hurt. _Everything_ hurt, but the gentle touch was strangely soothing and it left him feeling more grounded.

He meant to lie and say he was fine, but the words stuck in his throat.  "I will be," he promised more honestly instead. He opened his eyes and drew back, smiling at Derek as determination shuttered down across his features once more. "I'll be a lot more okay as soon as we have some more distance between us and the demon lady and are able to get those wounds of yours patched up. I'll find us some new plates and be right back. Sit tight, okay?"

Derek looked pained in a way that wasn't physical. "You shouldn't have to do that, you look like hell. Get in the car, I can do it..." he tried to rise, but Stiles quickly pressed him back down with a hand on his chest.

"Oh no. _You_ are going to sit there and not bleed too much, okay?  That is your one and only task. Don't bleed to death. You do that, and you will make me very happy. Thanks, by the way, you look like hell too," Stiles muttered back fondly. "I've got it, okay?  You just pulled off Mission Impossible, I think I can do this much. Just keep pressure on those wounds, big guy, and I'll be right back."

Stiles decided that either God or Fate or something was on their side today, because although there were a few cars and semi-trucks parked about, the rest stop was pretty quiet and no one noticed the bruised, barefoot, pajama-clad boy as he slunk about, casing the cars, clutching a screwdriver from the tool kit Derek had stowed in his trunk with blood stained hands. There was a beat up old station wagon with a flat tire and an orange warning sticker on the window that looked like it hadn't moved in a while. Hunkering down behind it, sheltered from view by a lumbering semi-trailer, Stiles feverishly worked off the plates and spirited them away back to his car.

He didn't change them out right away, feeling they'd already pushed their luck in this location. Instead Stiles slid into the driver's seat with the plates wedged beside him. He'd find someplace nearby with more privacy to swap them.  Then, he'd figure out what he was going to do about Derek. He had no idea how much blood the other man had already lost or was continuing to lose. They needed to do something about that as soon as possible _._  

Reaching across Derek, Stiles fumbled the glove compartment open. Fishing out a prescription medicine bottle, he spilled a couple pills into his hand and tossed them into his mouth, dry. As he pulled out and headed back towards the highway, he chewed the Adderall capsules apart rather than swallowing them, pushing the bitter beads under his tongue for faster absorption. It was unpleasant, but effective.

The powerful stimulant started to take effect barely two exits later; an expansive lightness growing in his chest along with a sudden, artificial clarity of mind as his injured, worn out body started pumping adrenaline again. It couldn't begin to truly compensate for his absolute exhaustion, but it helped. He knew from experience that he'd be in for a nasty crash later, but right now he needed the edge. He had to make sure Derek didn't die. He wondered if an ER would take someone without ID or proof of insurance.

 

* * *

 

"No hospitals!" Derek said sharply, eyes flying open with a reflexive, almost panicked jerk when the car stopped moving.

"Yeah, I heard you the first dozen times," Stiles muttered as he slid the jeep into park, feeling completely wiped and more than a little cranky. His Adderall high was threatening to wear off too quickly. He chewed another one, despite knowing he probably shouldn't.

Derek reached over and caught hold of Stiles' wrist as he pulled his hand back from shutting the glove compartment. The other man's grasp would have been crushing if blood loss and fatigue hadn't weakened it to almost nothing. It was more than a little alarming how fast Derek's strength was bleeding away, no pun intended.

"Stiles, they will _find_ us!" Derek was trying to glare, but he mostly looked frightened. He obviously wasn't dealing well with feeling helpless.  

Stiles regarded him with a sigh, irritation bleeding away into simple weariness. "Relax, I get it. This isn't a hospital, just a place we can crash for a little while and patch up. Trust me, okay?" He gently pried Derek's fingers off his bruised and abraded wrist.

As much as he desperately wished he _could_ take Derek to a hospital, the other man had effectively talked him out of it for the time being. He reluctantly had to agree that it probably was too dangerous.  Even if they could get around the issue of Derek having no usable identity and no insurance, the fact remained that at least one of his injuries was obviously a gunshot wound. Any reputable hospital would have to report that. Sadly, Stiles had no idea how you went about finding a _less_ reputable clinic or convenient back-door doctor like they always had in the movies.  If the hospital filed a report, there would be police and questions and attention that would probably lead Kate right to them.

For that matter, what if Kate anticipated that they might seek medical aid and used it as a way to track them?  Derek might have left a blood trail behind the factory, but even if he hadn't she _knew_ that Stiles was injured. She might think to look at all the hospitals in the area to see if they turned up.  They'd not been able to get more than a few cities away from where he'd been held captive. It wasn't nearly enough distance for comfort, but it was all they were going to be able to manage if he didn't want Derek to bleed out in the car.

Stimulants or no, Stiles was hitting the end of his tether. He very much wanted to get help of some kind, but Derek was adamant that hospitals and police were all bad and Stiles couldn't disagree. He'd seen too much to doubt Kate's determination and resourcefulness.  Just _thinking_ of her catching up with them again made him break out in a cold sweat and feel like he was going to throw up.

Maybe he was being too cautious. Maybe going to the ER would be fine and this wasn't the right call to make, but Derek's paranoia was catching and Stiles wasn't ready to take any chances. Right now, invisibility seemed to him their only sure protection.  His head wasn't clear enough to think through their options with any kind of rationality and he knew it. Their best bet was to lay low and hope to be overlooked until they could figure out a better plan.

Parking the jeep out of sight, Stiles painfully peeled himself out of the driver's seat. He'd picked the seediest old motel he could, in the worst possible area of town. The kind of establishment that let rooms by the hour or the week for dirt cheap prices because, well, you were basically getting a lot of dirt and everything was cheap.

He retrieved his wallet from under Derek's feet, pulled a sweatshirt on over his now blood stained PJs, stuffed his feet into a pair of sneakers and pulled a baseball cap low over his face. Shuffling off to find the motel's lobby, he scrubbed his hands on the insides of his sleeves to try and wipe away the dried blood, which now mostly just looked like dirt.

The "lobby" was a little hole in the wall containing a thin, bearded man inside a protective cage of bars and bullet proof glass. The man was wreathed in cigarette smoke and focused on a wrestling match taking place on a small portable TV.  Stiles paid cash for a room for two nights. He had already picked out a fake name to use, but the man inside the cage pushed a key out through the slot in the window without even asking for one. He didn't wait for Stiles to pick it up before his eyes were glued back on the TV again. As he walked away, Stiles realized he probably needn't have bothered trying to hide his bloody pajamas. Nobody here seemed likely to notice or care. The apathy was oddly comforting.

The key was an actual, metal key, not one of those more modern key-cards. It was connected to a large, scratched and pitted plastic fob with a barely visible room number printed on one side.  Stiles used it to identify which room was theirs. Parking in front of it, he helped Derek out of the car and bundled him quickly inside.

Stiles made a few more trips back and forth, bringing in all the stuff he could think of that they might need from the car, and probably a lot of stuff they didn't. Temporarily leaving Derek sprawled on one of the beds with strict instructions to continue keeping pressure on his wounds, Stiles locked up the room and hopped back in the jeep. There was no need to advertise their location by leaving a recognizable vehicle parked right outside their door. Besides, he needed to get a few things.

First stop was a dingy little pharmacy and convenience store he'd spotted while looking for a motel. He stocked up on bandages, disinfectant and anything else he thought he might need. The old man behind the counter rung him up and took his cash without a single glimmer of interest or a second look at his bruised face. In neighborhoods like this, a lack of curiosity was probably the best way to survive. 

Stiles' second stop was the parking lot of a rundown apartment complex a few streets away from their motel.  The little cluster of buildings clearly did not have assigned parking, so Stiles left his jeep in one of the many empty spots near the end. Hopefully no one would notice an extra car, and even more hopefully, the scant protection of seeming to belong would mean it would not be gone or stripped by the time he returned. His dusty, banged up, ancient jeep looked right at home amid the other junkers in the lot and he could only trust it would seem pretty unattractive to potential thieves.

It was a good plan, but meant that Stiles had to walk almost two blocks back to the hotel. He dry swallowed a handful of the aspirin he'd just bought, but it did little good against the sheer amount of pain assailing him. His burns were radiating heat and agony and every time his legs brushed he clenched the handles of the plastic bags tighter. It was getting dark by the time he got back to their room and by then he was shaking, his vision blurred with tears he refused to acknowledge. It took him three tries to get the key in the lock. 

Once in the room with the deadbolts fastened behind him, Stiles allowed himself a moment to sink down onto the edge of the bed and collect himself, the drugstore bags falling to the floor by his feet. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his sweatshirt and just breathed for a minute, telling himself that this was good and that they were as relatively safe as he could make them.

"Stiles?" Derek's soft, worried voice brought Stiles' head up with a snap and he quickly stumbled back to his feet. If he didn't keep moving he was going to crash and that couldn't happen yet, he still had things to do. Derek needed him.

Derek was half sitting, half lying on the opposite bed. He had towels from the motel's bathroom pressed against his shoulder and ribs. He looked very pale and Stiles could see the sort-of-white towels were already stained with red.  _How much blood had he already lost? How much more could he afford to lose before bad stuff started happening?_

Stiles pulled the grocery bags up onto the bed, hands still trembling faintly as he dumped the contents and sorted out the things he was going to need first. He didn't know why he thought he was going to be able to deal with Derek's injuries. His medical experience started and ended with a couple of months of helping Scott out in the animal clinic one summer, but he'd seen this kind of thing done in so many movies he felt like he could figure it out.

_It wasn't like he had to do surgery, right?  Just patch Derek up enough so that he stopped bleeding and didn't get infected, right?  So what if he really, really didn't do well with the sight of blood in real life? He'd deal. He could do this._

Stiles breathed deeply. _He could do this._ If it came down to it and things started going really wrong ... well, then he _would_ take Derek to a hospital and figure out the rest later, to hell with it all. His hands shook harder and Stiles had to jam them into his armpits to get them to stop, scowling angrily at himself. _Stop it. Stop it. You are so not allowed to keep freaking out right now!_

He glanced over at the battered old beige phone on the scarred nightstand between the beds. He didn't know if it even worked, but he was struck with a sudden, visceral longing to call his father.  Stiles desperately wanted his dad here with him. He wanted the older man's reassuring presence and level head. He wanted someone he trusted to tell him what to do, to take over and make everything all right.

He wanted to feel safe.

They were a long, long way from Beacon Hills, but that didn't matter.  He knew if he called, his father would come. He always had and the surety that he always would was one of the few, precious, fixed points in Stiles' life. 

His father would come ... and he would walk right into Kate's crosshairs. 

Stiles' body shuddered, his overwrought emotions unable to even deal with the mere _possibility._  Panic clawed its way up the back of his throat, thick and almost overwhelming.Breathing rapidly through his mouth, he tried to keep the world from spinning and quickly discarded his selfish, childish wish for contact.

Derek had lost his family to these people in horrible ways. He couldn't risk pulling his father into this death trap they were stuck in without some kind of plan. He could _not_ risk getting his father tortured or killed because of him. _He couldn't._ He would honestly rather die.

"Stiles?" Derek's voice was more worried and demanding this time, although still soft with a lack of strength. Derek pushed up onto his elbows only to immediately fall back, mouth a little slack and eyes blinking rapidly as if fighting off a sudden rush of encroaching shadows brought on by the exertion.

"Yeah," Stiles said in determined tones, keeping his head down as he hurried over. His breathing was still too rapid.  "Yeah. I'm here, it's okay. Don't move, moving isn't good. Gonna get you patched up now. Let's start by getting that shirt off." He reached for Derek's torn and bloodstained tee, but Derek caught his hands.

"Stiles?" he repeated, more gently. "Look at me."

Stiles resisted for a moment, then let his gaze slide to meet Derek's. It was a mistake, because every time Derek looked at him with those soft, worried eyes, Stiles felt like breaking into absolutely pathetic tears for no reason he could understand. His heart rate and breathing slowed, but his chest felt like it was going to shatter.  He quickly looked away again.

"Derek, I can't," he whispered, not even sure what he was saying he couldn't do. He just knew he couldn't let himself feel whatever this was right now. He couldn't afford to crumble. "We need to get you fixed up," he said firmly, clearing his throat and bringing his gaze back to Derek's. "I need you to be okay. I've got antiseptic, I've got bandages ... everything we need," he babbled. "I can do this. I _can._ I can do this, and you'll be okay."

To Stiles' great relief, Derek simply nodded, as if he understood.  Raising his head with effort, he pressed a soft kiss onto Stiles' knuckles before releasing his hands. "Of course I will, and I know you can," he murmured. "Everything's going to be all right, Stiles."

Stiles knew that logically, that was something neither of them could really promise, but he still found the confidence in Derek's voice reassuring.  He gave a shaky smile as he set about cutting the other man out of his ruined shirt.

Derek's injuries hadn't gotten any prettier with the passage of time. The flesh around them was reddened and bruised. Peeling off the makeshift bandages had the unfortunate effect of starting the bleeding up again in force, saturating the bedspread beneath Derek. His undamaged skin felt cold and clammy and his breathing was rapid and shallow.

Stiles worked as quickly as he could. He plied Derek with aspirin and then set about cleaning and dressing the wounds. Derek almost screamed when Stiles poured antiseptic over the ragged gash across his side. He jerked and rolled involuntarily away, instinctively trying to protect the injury.

Stiles winced, trying to lean his weight across Derek's chest to keep him still, but to no effect. He fumbled to not lose his hold on the antiseptic bottle, the liquid splashing on the bedspread.

"Sorry, I know this hurts, I'm sorry," he apologized. "Please, Derek, I can't hold you. I need you to be still, big guy, okay? I gotta do this," he pleaded.

Derek nodded, already having gotten hold of himself and in the process of rolling back towards Stiles. "I know, sorry," he said hoarsely. "Caught me by surprise is all. It's okay, go on."

Grimacing, Stiles did. Derek gasped, screwing his eyes shut and gripping the bed spread tightly with both fists, but this time he didn't move.

By the time Stiles had finished cleaning and dressing the wound to his ribs, Derek had gone limp and disturbingly placid. He was still awake, but he seemed to be growing increasingly faint and shocky. Stiles wasn't sure if it was because of the pain, the blood loss, or both.  It was frustratingly hard to bandage the jagged wound because he had no way to close it up other than swathing it in gauze, which was surprisingly more difficult than it seemed. Blood kept soaking through the layers of bandage as fast as he applied them and making him start over.  He eventually came up with a method of wadding the pads up and then using gauze strips and medical tape applied tight over the top to hold them in place. This seemed to work and the bleeding _finally_ stopped.  

Hands shaking, Stiles rolled Derek onto his back and moved on to his shoulder wound. The towel wrapping his shoulder was heavy and wet, partially saturated with blood. Derek's face was like chalk. Fear settled nauseatingly in the pit of Stiles' stomach. Derek's wounds didn't seem life threatening on their own, but it felt like he had lost a _lot_ of blood.  

Thankfully, cleaning and dressing the shoulder wound was much quicker and easier than the messier side wound had been. It worried Stiles a little that he couldn't really get inside this wound to clean it, but maybe that wasn't necessary?

Once the wounds were bandaged and finally no longer bleeding, Stiles anxiously regarded his handiwork. He'd done everything obvious he knew how to do, but it worried him greatly that he had no idea at what point blood loss could become fatal and how to tell where on that scale they were right now.  Was there any way to treat it short of being able to give someone a transfusion? He didn't know.

Seriously uncomfortable with his lack of knowledge, Stiles finally decided to do what he always did when he didn't know something.  Mentally crossing his fingers, Stiles risked booting up his phone so he could look up some answers.  He had a kind of fuzzy grip on time at this point, but he didn't think it had been more than an hour or two since they escaped at the most. He had to hope that that was not enough time for Kate and her goons to have worked out who he was, gotten his phone number, and hacked his carrier or whatever they would have to do to try to be able to trace him. They'd been able to trace their own guy's phone so quickly because they'd already been set up to do that for business purposes, probably. Stiles had to hope that it would take them a little more time for them to get a line on his. 

As soon as the phone was up he was assaulted by all the remaining unread twitter notifications that had been loaded but not viewed the last time it was on. He cleared the notifications without looking at them. Then he brought up his twitter app and deleted his account like he should have done days ago. He didn't have to deal with that crap. There was no point in continuing to look at that train wreck and allowing it to keep hurting him. He didn't know those people. They didn't understand, they never would, and he found that he just couldn't care anymore. He had much more tangible and pressing problems to deal with. 

Unfortunately, dealing with them wasn't going to be easy. This motel had no Wi-Fi, of course, and the local cell signal turned out to be total crap. He had a single bar of reception and almost no data service.

Stiles brought up his phone's web browser and tried to run searches, but the spotty service made it slow, frustrating work. Pages would _almost_ load, or they would load _once,_ but then he would get the dreaded "page not found" message as soon as he tried to click the next link. It was taking far too long to run even the simplest search and Stiles gripped the phone in frustrated urgency, glancing between the slowly loading page and Derek's still form on the bed. He struggled not to throw the phone across the room. He didn't have time for this. Derek could be **_dying_ ** while he waited for the damn page to load!

His urgency may have been exaggerated by his severely wrung-out state, far too much Adderall and an overabundance of nerves, but Stiles simply could not deal with this right now. He needed some damn information, okay? He needed something he could hold onto and understand.

Making an impulsive decision, Stiles gave up on the internet and tried using his phone to make a call instead. He couldn't call his dad, because no matter how good his intentions of keeping up pretences might be, he knew he'd crumble the minute he heard his father's voice and... no. Just no. There was someone else he could call though, someone he could trust to help him without asking a lot of questions. Well... okay, he'd ask questions, but he'd accept it if Stiles didn't want to answer and would still help.

"What are you ... doing?" Derek asked, his voice a little hazy but concerned when he saw Stiles holding the phone to his ear.

"It's okay, trust me," Stiles promised, holding up his hand in a reassuring gesture as the phone rang. "Internet isn't working and I need someone to look up a few things for me."

Derek looked worried, but he was too weak to do more than frown uncertainly.  Dark circles hung under his eyes and perspiration beaded on his brow. He looked awful.

The phone rang twice, long enough for Stiles to start dreading that maybe it was going to go to voice mail, and _then_ what was he going to do? 

"Hello?  Stiles?" The connection wasn't great, but the sudden relief that filled Stiles at hearing the familiar voice was almost as potent as a drug.

"Hey, Scott," Stiles tried for casual. "What's up?"

"Not much," Scott said slowly, also clearly trying and failing to sound like everything was normal.  "Where are you, man? I've been leaving messages. You back home yet?"

"Yeah, sorry. No, not yet. I've been traveling around, you know. Haven't really had my phone on much. So... Scotty... where are you, right now?" _Please be near a computer. Please be near a computer._

"Staring at the exactly three sentences I have done on the stupid Econ paper that's due tomorrow morning," Scott groaned in weary tones. "It's so unfair to have to have a paper due _now_ with finals all next week. I swear that..." Scott stopped dead and when he spoke again his voice was pained and guilty. "Oh God, I'm sorry, that was stupid and thoughtless and I shouldn't be... I mean... I'm sorry. Stiles..."

Stiles shook his head. "Scott, Scott, stop. It's okay, all right? Chill. If there's one thing I _don't_ miss about being there it's having to struggle through final exams. You have my pity, man," he said lightly. "But look, if you're in front of your computer, can you do something for me?"

"Sure, anything," Scott said quickly.

"Okay, can you Google _symptoms of fatal blood loss_ for me?" Stiles asked.

"Um... okay..." Scott agreed more slowly. "Why exactly am I looking this up?"

"Research," Stiles brushed the question off. "I'm having internet issues. If you could just look up a couple things for me that would be great. You know, if you're not too busy with school stuff _..._ " Stiles knew he was playing somewhat shamelessly on his best friend's misplaced feelings of guilt, but he really just needed Scott to go with him on this.

"No, no, it's fine," Scott hurried to assure. "Okay, _symptoms of fatal blood loss_..." he repeated, speaking the words while he typed them. "Okay, so I've got _Anemia Due to Excessive Bleeding_ , _Blood Loss, Transfusions and Transfusion Alternatives_..." Scott started reading down the headings of the list of search results. 

"Second one, check that one out," Stiles interrupted.

Scott did. He read the article to Stiles, who was much too impatient to listen to a recitation of what blood loss was, and urged his friend to skip ahead and read him the parts about symptoms and treatments. The symptoms list was too general to be helpful, but the treatment information got him thinking.

"Transfusions..." Stiles mulled aloud, following his own darting train of thought. "Okay, okay, Scott, now go back and search for _how to know when you've lost too much blood,_ then open a new tab and also search for _how to do transfusions._ "

Scott obliged. " _Is Your Menstrual Flow Too Heavy?_ " he dutifully intoned.

Stiles coughed. "What?"

"I'm reading the results under _how to know when you've lost too much blood_ ," Scott said grimly. "Okay? What do you want, that's what it says."

"Yeah... well, we can skip that one. Not what I'm looking for."

Unfortunately, most of the rest of the results were similarly unhelpful, talking about low blood pressure and diabetes and everything but what Stiles wanted.

"Ugh! Okay, Scott, be more specific. Search for _how to know if you're going to die from blood loss_ and read me some of the results from the transfusions search."

"Okay... Stiles, really, why do you need to know this?" Scott asked again, a hint of concern threading through his tone.

"Scott, please, I don't have a lot of time right now. Just... just help me with this, okay? Please?  I promise I'll explain later. Can you please just read me the results?" Stiles pleaded, and maybe a little more of his desperation came through than he intended because when Scott spoke again his voice had acquired a more serious edge. 

"Okay, so, _Internal Bleeding: Find Facts about Symptoms and Treatments_..." he read off the results, and Stiles took a moment to silently bless his best friend for his ever obliging nature before telling him which results he wanted to hear more about. It took a couple more tries but Stiles finally started getting some more useful and relevant information. Ironically, some of the best, most concise information they found was on a gaming RPG forum. Go figure.

"Hmm," Stiles said thoughtfully. "Okay, now look up _how to do a blood transfusion between two people_ and _do it yourself blood transfusions,_ " he directed Scott.  He looked over at Derek, moving the phone away from his mouth a little. "What blood type are you?" he asked.

Apparently Scott heard the question just fine because he paused. "Uh... why?"

"Not _you,_ " Stiles responded to him before switching his gaze back to Derek, trying to keep the older man's increasingly drifting attention. " _You,_ what's your blood type?"

Derek replied and Stiles nodded as if pleased. "Oh, oh that's good. We're compatible then. That could actually work. Don't worry, I don't have any diseases. Well, I mean, I haven't ever actually been tested," he admitted with a frown. "But, you know, you're the first person I've had, like, serious sex with, and I always used protection even for oral, so we should be good," he rambled, thinking aloud as he answered his own questions and concerns.

" _WHAT?_ " Scott's voice demanded loudly from the phone still by his ear, forcibly reminding Stiles that he was still very much on the line. _Oh. Oops._

"Stiles, _who_ are you talking to?!"

Stiles ignored the question. "Scotty, focus. _Do it yourself blood transfusions between two people._ Go." 

" _Stiles!"_

"Scott, come on, this is important! Trust me, okay?"

Scott sighed heavily. He did as he was asked, but seemed to become increasingly alarmed and disturbed with each new search as Stiles had him find out procedures and equipment needed to perform transfusions and where it could be obtained. It seemed like some of it wasn't so easy to just buy, or at least it wasn't the kind of thing your local drugstore was likely to carry.

"Okay," Stiles said, thinking creatively. "So give me a list of clinics in Redstone, preferably little ones with minimal security. Medical clinics would have that kind of stuff, I should think."

"Oh God, Stiles," Scott muttered as he dutifully got him his results. "It's not like they put _easy to burglarize_ in their listings, you know."

"Yeah, okay, _fine,_ just give me a list of the clinics then, I'll figure it out if I need to."

"I really don't want to know what you're up to, do I?"

" _Nooope,_ " Stiles agreed. "You got the list?"

"Yes," Scott sighed. "You have a pen?" 

Stiles did. Paper was harder to find, but he made do and quickly jotted down the list of addresses on the back of the drug store receipt. "Okay, look, I think that does it for now. Thanks man, I really appreciate it."

"Wait! Stiles!" Scott's voice was deeply concerned. "Come on... what's going on, _really_? Are you in trouble? Do you need - " 

"Scott, I have to go. Look, don't worry, okay? I've got this under control," he lied. "I promise I'll call later and tell you everything, all right?  Thanks, Scott!" Stiles quickly hung up and powered the phone back off again.

Stiles set the phone aside, running a hand through his hair and looking at the list of addresses he'd scribbled down. He looked back to Derek. He really wasn't so sure he could do the whole blood transfusion thing between the two of them. It seemed good in theory, but from what Scott had read him it was complicated, could be dangerous and seemed like it really shouldn't be done without someone who knew what they were doing. Best bet would be to steal some bagged blood or plasma from a clinic and try to go that route, but it would still require him to be able to get a freaking _tube_ into Derek's _vein_ which unhelpfully involved both needlesand bloodand Stiles could just see himself botching it all and making things worse instead of better.

Moving back to Derek, Stiles checked the bandages again. He was relieved to see that they were still white and clean on the outside, no blood soaking through. Derek was still very pale, his breathing and pulse both elevated, but he was conscious and alert, his dark, worried eyes following Stiles around.

Stiles pushed his hand through his hair again, making the damp mop stick up at odd angles. He sank down on the edge of the other bed and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"Stiles?  What did you find out?" Derek asked him quietly.  His voice was slow and a little slurred, as if he'd been drinking, but he still seemed quite lucid.

Stiles wanted that to be a good sign so badly it ached. "How's your vision?" Stiles asked instead of answering. "Faded? Grainy? Dark?  How are you feeling? Honest answer, no macho crap," he added, looking up to give Derek a squint eyed look of warning.

"I _feel_ like there are holes punched in my body," Derek said dryly. Swallowing with difficulty, he turned his head on the pillow to see Stiles better, seeming unwilling or unable to move more than that. "I'm kind of dizzy and I feel like moving much or lifting my head is really _not_ a good idea," he answered honestly. "I can see okay as long as I stay still." There was a hedge in his voice on the last.

Stiles rubbed his face, wincing as he aggravated his injures. "Okay, so... here's where we're at: you _should_ probably get a transfusion or something, but we've got the bleeding stopped and you're still alert and seem kind of on the edge of acceptable so... like... I think maybe you could be okay with some time, rest and fluids, maybe."

Stiles picked anxiously at the stiff, ugly bedspread upon which he sat. "I should ... I should get stuff, in case you take a turn for the worse," he said, trying to sound firm but feeling so weary he could cry. "But I don't... I don't know if I can do it," he admitted. "I don't know if I can do a transfusion, or figure out how to knock over a hospital right now, and I'm scared of leaving you alone too long, and what if I get the wrong thing and give you something that could kill you..." Stiles bit his lips and scrubbed his face again, feeling like a failure.  Derek had been absolutely amazing today, rescuing him, getting them out of there, and now here he was totally not measuring up when he was needed. He was starting to crash and the world swam nauseatingly around him. 

"No," Derek gave his head a minute, but decided shake against the pillows.  "No, don't go. Stiles, please, you've done enough. I'll be okay, honestly, I think I just need to rest." He swallowed again with difficulty. "Listen... if something goes really wrong, I can always take my chances at a hospital and hope for the best." Derek's words were reassuring, but his gaze slid away towards the ceiling in a way that told Stiles he didn't actually hold any such hope. "But just... call 911 and take off, okay? Don't stay with me. Get as far away as you can. Promise?"

Stiles stubbornly shook his head. "No," he refused quietly. "You'd be helpless. They could get you."

Derek stared up at the ceiling. "It's bound to happen someday, one way or another," he murmured wearily, as if confessing to something he'd always known but never before admitted. "But it doesn't have to be that way for you. You said they don't know who you are. We need to keep it that way. If I'm out of the way, there's no way for them to link us and they'll have to eventually give up looking for you."   

Stiles snorted incredulously. "Yeah, I'm not particularly ready to put any bets on that one. Kate doesn't seem the forgiving and forgetting type, and as much as I'd like to think they're all incompetent morons, I really can't bring myself to believe that _none_ of them noted down my license plate either at the station, or during either of our getaway attempts, so it's only a matter of time." He swallowed, staying analytical with effort and not letting himself think about what that meant right now. "Anyway, it doesn't matter, because we're going to figure all this out, Derek. I'm not sure how yet, but we're going to find a way to end this that doesn't involve dying. So... don't you start trying to check out on me, all right? That is totally not allowed."

"So bossy," Derek muttered, but a faint smile played about his overly pale lips. "Always have to have everything your way, don't you?"

"That's just because my way is the _smart_ way," Stiles retorted, forcing himself up from the bed. He was amazingly thirsty, and he knew that he should make sure that Derek stayed hydrated too. If they weren't going to be able to give him an IV, then their best hope was to make his own body produce the blood he needed fast as possible. Fluids would help.

The room did not come with any cups, but amid the mess of clothes and other items he had grabbed from the car, Stiles found a plastic Avengers cup that he'd once used to store pencils. Filling it with water from the tap, he gulped some himself and then plied Derek with it until the other man complained he was going to be sick.  Stiles finally relented, but left the full cup sitting on the nightstand within easy reach.

He pulled the blanket off the other bed and draped it carefully across Derek's bandaged and half naked body, then settled on the bed beside him, pulling a corner over his own legs to see if the warmth would do anything for his shakes. He tried not to jostle Derek or move the bed too much. He really needed to sit still for a minute, but wanted to stay within easy reach so he could monitor Derek's condition.

He knew he should probably take a look at his own injuries, but they weren't life threatening and he was honestly just too tired and in too much pain. If he didn't move, he hurt less, so that was good. He'd just sit still for a while.  

"So, that person you talked to, Scott... he's a friend?" Derek asked. His eyes drifted shut, but it looked more like an effort to deal with pain than a precursor to sleep.

"Mm," Stiles replied, tilting his head back to rest against the headboard. He found that he both did, and didn't want Derek to sleep. He knew it would probably do him good to rest, but at the same point, Derek being awake was the only real way he could tell that he was doing all right. 

"Yeah, Scott and I have been buds since, like, pre-K. It's okay, he's totally safe, I promise," Stiles assured. "And I didn't tell him anything about you," he added, although that was only because Stiles had no desire to drag his friend into this deadly mess with them, not because he didn't trust Scott to keep his secrets.

"His girlfriend is Allison Argent?" Derek asked quietly, very quietly.

Stiles stiffened, weariness retreating abruptly at the little jolt that question sent through his ragged system. "Um... yes?" he said slowly, eyeing Derek with concern. "How did you-?"

"I looked through your phone. I'm sorry," Derek said quietly, closing his eyes. "I saw pictures of them."

Stiles stared at the far wall, feeling entirely too wrung out to have this conversation right now. He didn't know how he was ever going to explain this to Derek in a way that the other man could believe. He stroked his fingers somewhat agitatedly through Derek's hair, glad at least that the other man wasn't pulling away from him, even if it was only because he was physically too weak to do so.

"Derek, look, I know it almost defies logic, but I swear, I knew nothing about Kate or Gerard or what kind of slugs they were before I met you. Allison moved to town our junior year of high school. Scott fell for her so fast I think it probably set new world records." He smiled a little, despite himself. "It was always just she and her dad, though. The rest of the family was not around. Mr. Argent didn't want her to have any contact with them, wouldn't let Allison's grandfather pay for college or anything. I always figured it was some kind of family argument..." He swallowed. "For what it's worth, I don't think Allison has any idea about any of this either," he whispered. "She's _nothing_ like Kate. She's not a bad person, Derek, honest. She's ... she's my friend."

Stiles would not disavow Allison just because of her family, not for anyone. He just hoped Derek could understand that, somehow.

"I'm sorry," Derek murmured, turning his head to press against Stiles' agitated fingers and gazing up towards him with a somber, but surprisingly open expression. "I should have let you explain, not blown up. I found things in your car, and then the credit card and I... I assumed things, and you didn't deserve that. You didn't deserve any of this."

Stiles blinked, surprised and relieved at Derek's easy acceptance, although he supposed at this point they had kind of moved pretty far past being able to have much distrust between them. Rationally, if Derek had really still thought he was one of the enemy, he probably would never have come back for him. Still, given what he'd been through in the past few months, it was a relief to have someone just ... _believe_ him.

He shrugged, settling down a little closer by Derek's side and letting his head rest on the pillow. "I told you, it's okay. I get it. I mean, you barely knew me, right?" Stiles realized it was true as he said it. Derek _still_ actually knew very little about him when you came down to it. It wasn't terribly surprising that he'd assumed the worst. More surprising was that he'd changed his mind and taken a chance on Stiles that could have cost him his life.

His hand slid over Derek's, fingers curling around the other man's wrist so he could feel the reassuring throb of his pulse.

"Stiles..." Derek's voice was drifting and slightly dreamlike, his eyes starting to un-focus.  "Why do you have notebooks full of missing people in your trunk?" It seemed apropos of nothing, but Derek said it like it was the only remaining puzzle piece he wasn't sure how to place. 

Stiles smiled wryly up at the ceiling as understanding blossomed. "Oh God, that's why you thought I was a bounty hunter, wasn't it? You saw my casebooks and crap in my trunk." He would have chuckled if he'd had the energy. "I'm a - " he stopped himself to correct his tenses. "I _was_ a criminology major, in school. The notes were for a project I was working on."

"The same school as Scott and Allison," Derek murmured, as if finally slotting all the pieces together.

"Yeah," Stiles sighed.

"But they're in finals now, and you're here."

"Yeah," Stiles said again, letting his eyes drift shut. His body felt unimaginably heavy.  "I was expelled." He hadn't meant to say that, but the words slipped free without conscious intent. That wasn't an unusual phenomenon for him and he found he was too tired to care. It wasn't as if Derek was likely to judge him for his academic failings. Really, it was dumb to care about it at all given their current situation. Still, it was the first time he'd admitted what had happened to anyone who didn't already know, and he found it was actually sort of a relief to finally just put it out there.

Derek frowned, forcing his eyes open again. "Why?" he shifted a little as if trying to see Stiles better, but the movement didn't go well for him. He stiffened, face creasing in agony as his motions aggravated his injuries. Groaning softly, his head arched back against the pillow and he bit his lip in pain.

Stiles was immediately alert again, worry pushing back his weariness. He leaned up too rapidly onto his elbow, making pain lance through his battered muscles and causing the world to swim a little. "Derek? Are you okay? What's wrong?"

Derek shook his head weakly, settling back again, breathing shallowly. "Just hurts," he panted softly, obviously frustrated and upset with himself. "'s okay."

Stiles made him drink some more water anyway before settling back down uneasily beside him. He wished he had better pain killers to give Derek. It was obvious the over-the-counter variety was doing pretty much nothing for him. For that matter, Stiles wouldn't mind a few of the good ones himself, but they would just have to survive without.

"Why?" Derek asked again after a moment, once they'd settled back down. His breathing was still rapid and his body tense. 

"It doesn't matter. It's stupid and it's a long story," Stiles replied, fingers tracing absently against Derek's wrist. He shifted, trying to get the ungodly throbbing pain in his bruised abdomen to subside. He felt like he was on fire.

"Can't be longer than my story," Derek murmured dryly. "It's not like we don't have time."

Stiles snorted, he couldn't argue with that, but continued to play silently with Derek's bloodstained fingers. Shouldn't Derek be conveniently passing out soon? The man looked like death warmed over and he had to be exhausted as well as weak. True, he supposed Derek _could_ probably use a distraction from the pain and for that matter so could he. It was just... talking about what had happened meant talking about Matt. Talking about Matt, to _Derek._  

With effort, Derek closed his fingers around Stiles', stilling his agitated little movements. "Never mind. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he assured.

For some reason, that was the push it took for Stiles to realize he actually _did_ want to. It seemed fair, somehow. He knew the dark, awful secrets of Derek's past. His own troubles were all pretty petty in comparison, but still, he wanted to return that level of trust. And ... maybe there was a part of him that needed to make sure that Derek understood and believed him, just in case. Just in case they really did get out of this and it ever mattered.  The two of them had already run into enough problems trying to deal with misunderstandings about one another stemming from circumstances presented out of context. The last thing Stiles wanted was for Derek to somehow stumble across _that thing_ online someday and get the entirely wrong impression about him, again. _Like, you know, pretty much everybody else._

"No, it's okay. Like I said, it's just ... stupid. It was all a load of crap," Stiles said with a sigh. "They said I was cheating and selling papers and, uh, other stuff, and I wasn't. It was all stupid Matt's fault, well, and kind of stupid Jackson's fault too, but I guess at least I _expected_ him to be a dick head, 'cause, you know, he always was..." Stiles scrunched his face and cast a sideways glance at his companion, realizing he was rambling and probably not making much sense.

"Okay, we have to start with Matt first, or this isn't going to make any sense. So... I told you I wasn't exactly Mr. Popularity in high school, right? I mean, I wasn't alone, or unhappy or anything; I had Scott and Allison and then, like, their friends too, and it was cool. But I never like, dated, or stuff, it just didn't happen. Then I went to college and it was like, this whole new start. All these new people who didn't know they couldn't stand me yet. It was great," he said sarcastically.

"We met this guy, Matt, in one of our classes and almost right away, he starts asking me out and being all attentive and shit. To be totally honest, and I'm not just saying this because of how things ended up, I wasn't actually that attracted to him. I mean, he wasn't hard to look at, but it wasn't like I would have noticed him if he hadn't noticed me, you know?  But he was so persistent and ... the attention was flattering, okay?  I'd never had that before, so ... yeah, I thought, why not give it a try? And for a while, it was okay."

After he said it, Stiles wondered if that were really true. He wondered if any part of the way Matt had treated him had ever been okay or if he'd just had no experience to tell him otherwise. Certainly, Matt had been very charming in the beginning. Sure, he had proved frustratingly uninterested in getting past third base and he could be moody and curt occasionally, sometimes to the point of being cruel, but it had been great to not be the odd one out all the time. It was great to be able to double date with Scott and Allison and not feel like a complete third wheel. Stiles hadn't wanted _Matt_ as much as he'd just wanted _someone ..._ and he had paid for that.

"Turns out, that wasn't one of my better ideas." Stiles stared up at the ceiling again, tracing the cracks and the water stains. He'd spent a lot of time not wanting to think about these things, but now he just felt ... numb.  "You know, I actually felt kind of _guilty_ ," he confided sardonically. "I felt like I was just using him to not be alone, but ... I really did try to be a good boyfriend. I did."

That had maybe been the worst part. How much he'd _wanted_ to do things right, and how it seemed like he never could. Matt had a way of making him feel so small and stupid and useless, like it was his fault that his boyfriend wasn't staying interested in him and he had to keep trying harder or he was a failure. Stiles had a very limited circle of acquaintances who mattered to him. He was fairly indifferent to most people outside that ring, but he would go to great lengths for the people close to him. His mistake was letting Matt into that circle and it had done great harm to the very people he would do anything to protect.  

"Turns out the joke was on me," Stiles continued. "Because, as I _eventually_ figured out, he wasn't actually interested in me at all. He was stalking Allison and I was just convenient access. _God_ , I was so mad he'd do that to her. What a creepy douche. He had, like, all these disturbing stalker-y photos just filling his hard drive. Total weirdo stuff." Stiles frowned in disgust.

"I had to get a little creative because being a creepy bastard is apparently not something people take very seriously, but we managed to get Allison a restraining order and ... stuff happened ... and Matt left the university." Stiles wasn't going to go into the details of it all, that wasn't important. He didn't regret what he'd done, even with the cost he ultimately paid for it. Matt was bad news and Stiles wasn't going to let him hurt his friends, especially not when it was his own stupidity that had endangered them in the first place.

It still gave him shivers, remembering the night they'd been at a party and he'd found Matt _helping_ a completely hammered Allison out to his car. She'd thought nothing of accepting his offer to help her back to her dorm. Matt was Stiles' boyfriend, of course she trusted him. Stupidly, at that point, so had Stiles. Also totally wasted, he'd naturally invited himself along for the ride, towing with him a nearly unconscious Scott and generously inviting a couple other random nearby acquaintances who were all far too drunk to drive. In his alcohol haze, he'd been grateful to Matt for being their designated driver and had told him so ... probably repeatedly. He was kind of a talkative drunk.

He hadn't understood why Matt seemed angry with him about that night, not then, anyway. Later, he'd understood, but not then. At the time, he'd thought maybe it was because he threw up in the backseat of Matt's car, although to be fair, that had kind of been Matt's own fault. Stiles didn't remember most of what happened after they'd dropped everybody else off, only that Matt had crawled into the back with him. Stiles had been more than willing, but he hadn't really been able to keep up. He had vague snatches of memory of Matt tugging on his hair as he pushed himself too hard down his throat, of not being able to breathe and losing his cookies all over the back seat. He'd had the mother of all hangovers the next day. His throat had felt raw, but he couldn't be sure if that was because Matt had been overly rough with him, or just from all the vomiting he'd done since. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd accidentally injured himself when he was drunk. Alcohol tended to shoot his coordination all to hell, not to mention his common sense. Of course, he understood _now_ that Matt had probably been punishing him for screwing up his chance at getting Allison alone, but at the time he had just blamed it on being drunk, clumsy and incautious.

For someone who was generally good at figuring things out, it _galled_ Stiles how long it had taken him to put all the pieces together. Really, he'd been pretty unforgivably stupid in his own opinion. He had absolutely no regrets over the schemes he had cooked up to set things right again and make sure Matt took a hike. Allison and Scott had been happy to help. He knew that only made them feel even more guilty later, but it wasn't their fault the dick-bag had gone looking for payback.  

"So, anyway, yeah, Matt left school and that was good, only of course he _would_ have a vindictive streak a mile wide. Him and his stupid freaking cameras." Stiles sighed. He glanced over at Derek. The other man's eyes were closed and his labored breathing had evened out some. Despite his resolve to share this with him, Stiles found himself not at all unhappy with the idea that Derek might be asleep. It was easier to tell the story if he were the only member of his own audience.  

"I didn't know he'd recorded us. When we were still together, I mean," he said quietly, wearily, trying not to see the scenes behind his eyes. He'd been trying to be good to his then boyfriend in his own awkward, eager way, but through the lens of Matt's camera he was pathetic, desperate and pushy.

"He put together this video that made it to look like I was totally forcing myself on him, and he posted it online," Stiles continued, voice flat and expressionless. "Only I came across as so freaking pathetic, you kind of had to laugh at it. Toss in some music, sound editing and sly, mocking overlays and it's no wonder it went viral. I'm internet famous," he said dryly.

"I've got my very own meme, now. Look up _pathetic puppy rapist_ sometime. No, actually, don't. Please don't." Stiles grimaced. "Enough people have seen me naked and begging to suck dick," he sighed. "Naturally, he made it so you don't actually see much of _him_ in the video, but the jerk linked to my profile just in case you didn't see _enough_ of me on there to know exactly who I was. He sent links to a bunch of people and I swear everyone on campus must have seen it within, like, 24 hours. The wonders of the internet," he remarked sarcastically.

"I mean... whatever, right? So I was the campus joke, it wasn't like that was a new experience. I figured it'd blow over eventually. Uh... no pun intended," he winced, fingers picking agitatedly at the blanket over his legs. "But some people online took the _rape_ part of it seriously. Matt put it out there like I'd shot the video and then he just edited it as payback. To be honest I think a lot of people suspected it was some kind of amateur porn gag we both put together to get attention, but there were others who kept sending it to the university administration, trying to get them to 'do something' about me. It's not like I blame them, I mean, a lot of bad stuff happens and people _should_ be accountable, it's just that that wasn't what happened with _us_. I told them they should go after Matt to get the whole, unedited video if they wanted the truth, but of course it was just a lot of _he said, he said_ at that point, and Matt had a lot more friends to back him up than I did. The Uni administration pretty much ignored the whole thing. I guess they didn't want to touch something so murky and salacious with a ten foot pole unless somebody made them, but I think it probably didn't help, later. They were probably glad to have a clean-cut reason to get rid of me."

Stiles paused to drink some of the water. "Okay, wow, this is like, taking forever to tell. I'll try to summarize before I pass out, 'kay?" he said, patting Derek's still hand and truly assuming he was asleep now.

"Long story somewhat shorter, Matt was a creep, but he was a smart creep. Apparently, when he was still at school he'd been doing a brisk side business selling homework and papers and stuff to other students. As my incredibly crappy luck would have it, one of his regular clients was another dude I went to high school with, a jerk named Jackson. So, since apparently he didn't feel he'd screwed me _quite_ enough already, the next paper Matt sells Jackson is one that _I_ actually wrote. We'd been sharing files on a thumb drive and it must have been on there with some of my other stuff.

"So, Jackson and I turn in almost the exact same paper for the same class and immediately there's a problem. Of course we both claimed to have written it and that the other must have stolen it." Stiles sighed. "But then there's that whole thing where my reputation wasn't exactly at an all time high by that point. And of course, since Jackson had been _buying_ his class work all semester, he had, like, sterling grades and mine were more spotty.  He was the golden boy sports star with the rich lawyer father and I'm the screw up who was constantly late to class, asked too many questions and was involved in questionable amateur porn. I'm sure you can see where this is going." Stiles' tone had taken on an acerbic edge.

"It didn't help that Professor Harris positively had it out for me anyway ever since the paintball incident involving his five bazillion dollar suit or whatever. Still, I mean, to be fair, with no conclusive proof the administration didn't want to act too hastily. Jackson and I were both put on academic watch, but see, for him, that meant he was temporarily benched off the team because of the schools' strict academic honor policy and that got his tighty-whities in a bunch that he was going to lose his place or something. The one good thing to come out of it is that as I hear it, he beat the crap out of Matt over the whole thing," Stiles said with a grin.

"Of course, unfortunately, Matt's way of setting things right for Jackson was to use him to make sure I ended up taking the fall for what Matt had been doing. Unbeknownst to me, Matt had been keeping his little stash of pre-written essays and stolen test keys on a drive in my fucking dorm room, so they wouldn't be traced to him if they were found. Easy for him to do when we were dating. So, my room is searched, they turn up, _nobody_ believes me that I have no idea how they got there, and the rest pretty much goes as you'd expect. 

"Scott and I were roommates and I kind of think Matt would have liked to get us both busted, but at least that didn't happen. Of course, I didn't actually know Matt was behind any of this until later. I figured Jackson was, but I wasn't sure how. I mean, the guy was an ass, but he wasn't exactly a genius. He'd always been trouble but he got about 1000 times worse when he and his best friend ended up going to different schools and then his long distance relationship with his girlfriend didn't work out. Which, incidentally, I'm pretty sure he blamed me for in some way as well since I _may_ have encouraged Lydia that she shouldn't put up with a guy who felt threatened by her brilliance. Lydia was Allison's best friend in high school and is an amazingly beautiful, brilliant and talented person," Stiles added as an explanatory aside. "I mean, she got into _Princeton_ for fuck's sake. She was way too good for Jackson.  _Anyway,_ " he tried to pull his rambling mind back on track, not really sure how he'd gotten off on that side-road.

"The point is, that I knew Jackson had some axes to grind, but he was the kind of dude who ran over people when they got in his way. He didn't usually go out of his way to hit you. It didn't make sense, so I started digging around and finally found the Jackson / Matt connection. Unfortunately, I still had no proof and by the time I tried to present that information to the powers that be, it was already too late. They wanted me gone."

Stiles had not gone quietly. He'd had a lot to lose, after all. Not only did expulsion mean having to leave the school with a bad mark on his record, it meant automatically failing all his classes and tanking his already tenuous GPA, all while having to pay for that privilege because of course there was no refund on student loans.

To make things worse, he had wanted to work in law enforcement. He wanted to be an investigator, preferably in some branch of forensics. He'd been struggling with his science grades, which was a problem, but figured he could always fall back on being a cop like his dad if he couldn't hack it. They did background checks for those types of jobs though, and while it wasn't exactly a felony, having been expelled from school for unethical behavior was going to be a huge black mark against him in the future, even if he _did_ somehow manage to go to another school and finish his degree.  Which, at the moment, he couldn't even afford to do.

"I tried to fight it, but it didn't do any good," he said quietly. "Nobody believed me and nobody really cared. Only Scott and Allison. They were awesome through the whole thing, but everything happened pretty fast and there was nothing we could really do in the end. I couldn't afford to stick around once I wasn't able to live in the dorm anymore and I didn't want to hang around there with nothing to do but watch everyone else finish out the term, anyway. I took off, but..." he grimaced guiltily.

"I... uh... I haven't exactly told my dad about... well, _any_ of this," he admitted. "So I was driving back, and I saw the exit for the Rainbow Canyons and I just... it seemed like something to do. Something other than going home." Stiles grinned ruefully as he considered the impact that impulsive decision had turned out to have on his life. "Halfway there, my jeep broke down, I met the hottest and most broody mechanic the world has ever produced and the rest, as they say, is history," he murmured, as if closing out a bedtime story. He let his scratchy eyes drift shut.

"What bunch of bastards." 

Stiles nearly jerked out of his skin at the unexpected sound of Derek's voice beside him. "Gaaah!" he blurted, then winced, whimpering as his body reminded him sharply of why he shouldn't make sudden moves right now. "You're awake," he croaked, stupidly.

Derek's fingers slid weakly over his again, squeezing. The dark head shifted very slightly on the pillow, Derek's unfocused gaze fixed on him. Derek's skin was starting to glisten with cold sweat and his eyes were cloudy, but the pain softening his dark gaze wasn't the physical kind. He favored Stiles with a flat look at having assumed he was telling his story to the ether, but merely gave the boy's fingers another light squeeze.

"I'm sorry you went through all that, and if I ever meet up with those people I'm going to kill them," he said, his quiet tone totally sincere. "Especially Matt."

Stiles actually smiled. "Whoa, uh, okay, thanks? But it's okay. I'd settle for some mild maiming," he joked, patting Derek's arm. "They're not worth it."

"But _you_ are," Derek muttered. "Look around you, Stiles. It's not like I have anything to lose, and what they did..." his voice trailed off angrily as if he didn't really have words to express how upset he was.

Stiles realized Derek was actually completely serious and it _probably_ shouldn't have been so touching to him, considering Derek was suggesting murdering people, but apparently he was _just_ warped enough that he found it kind of sweet.  

"That's like... simultaneously the sweetest and most disturbing offer I've ever heard, dude," he said, trying not to laugh because that would hurt way too much. "But you realize you're starting to make me rethink the whole serial killer thing again, right?"

"Ow," Derek murmured when a soft huff of mirth at the old gag proved too much. "You realize you're making me rethink leaving you in the desert, right?" he returned sarcastically. Neither of them meant the comforting jibes and they both knew that.

"Aw, don't be like that. Do I not take you to the nicest places?" Stiles joked, gesturing vaguely around them at the dirty little motel room. "Why, l bet we could even get cockroaches AND bed bugs if we want to spring for the upgrade."

Derek grinned a little. His brows fluttered briefly together as if under the weight of a passing thought. "What did you sell?" he asked quietly, as if a little worried about the answer. "I mean, the cash." He nodded his chin about them, indicating that he must realize Stiles had paid for their room with the same cash he'd used to pay for his car repairs previously.  "You told me you sold something."

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "Not what you're thinking," he promised. "Trust me, I wouldn't go for that much, and I wasn't lying to you about my, uh, experience or lack thereof."

Derek looked adorably horrified at having Stiles take the question in that light. "That wasn't what I meant!" he protested immediately.

Stiles settled him by gently pressing on his uninjured shoulder. "Relax, relax, I'm sorry, I was joking," he assured. "You remember that autographed 1986 World Series ball I told you about? I sold it on craigslist, that's all."

Derek looked mollified, but still rather surprised. "Why?" he asked, perhaps remembering how proudly Stiles had spoken of the gift.

"Because I needed money, quick, for traveling and some other stuff, and it was the only thing of any real value I had," Stiles said simply, looking away. He was trying to shrug it off like no big deal, but he couldn't completely hide how much parting with the treasure had hurt him, even if it seemed like a silly thing to feel anything about _now._  

Derek seemed to understand. "I'm sorry," he said again, quietly.

"It's all right, really," Stiles assured, feeling almost uncomfortable at the other man's sympathy when his own troubles couldn't begin to compare to what Derek had been through. "Shit happens. It's all just history. I'm over it."

"Mm, yeah, I can tell. So over it you'd rather visit an ancient, out-of-season tourist trap than go home," Derek remarked, his eyes sliding shut again despite his apparent desire to keep them open.

"Well, yeah, but that's just 'cause I was being dumb and avoiding my dad," Stiles mumbled.

"He should have stood up for you," Derek whispered, obviously still upset by Stiles' story even if he was too weak to do more than scowl about it.

Stiles' eyes narrowed as he realized he'd just given Derek the entirely wrong impression. "No, no! I didn't mean... he totally would have," he said firmly, because no one _ever_ got to think ill of his father. "He's like, the best dad ever, trust me. He'd probably have driven up and killed Matt himself," he sighed. "Which is more or less why I didn't tell him at first ... well ... okay, and I kind of wanted to handle my own problems, you know? Then shit just kind of snowballed with the school and I ... I want to believe he'll believe me about the whole cheating thing, but I wasn't exactly um, a _model_ citizen growing up," he confessed. "Nothing serious, but I, ah, may have done some _slightly_ less than strictly legal things. All for very good causes, mind you," he stressed. "But let's just say I have ... _history,_ especially with stupid Jackson and his stupid lawyer father that makes it all kind of ... complicated."

Stiles was unconsciously twisting the edge of the blanket over and over between his anxious fingers. "He _will_ believe me," he said a little more firmly, although he sounded suspiciously as if he were at least partially still trying to convince himself. "But I just... it's like I'm always in some kind of trouble, and the school ... I mean, that was money we just don't have, and he'll be good about it, he always is, but I'm just such a fuck up and I hate that I get to disappoint him all over again _,_ " he admitted, his words crowding together as he spoke faster and faster. "And I'm just... I'm terrified someone at home is going to come across that stupid fucking video online and show it to him before I've had a chance to explain, and I probably should have talked to him right away, but I just don't know how to start that conversation. Pretty much I just kept wishing it would all go away if I waited long enough, which I know is dumb but..."

Panting with exertion and grimacing in pain, Derek rolled partway onto his side so that he could lean over and kiss Stiles, halting the increasingly agitated flow of words.

Stiles started, falling silent out of surprise and gently, hesitantly returning the brush of Derek's lips. It was no more than a chaste touch, a brief whisper of contact before Derek had to sink back down, blinking hard as if his vision were spotty. His gaze was fixed on Stiles though, and it did really weird but pleasant things to the teen's heart.

"Stiles," Derek said softly. "You are _not_ a fuck up. It's not your fault you've run into a string of bad people who screwed your life up. You tried to do the right things and you got burned, but that's them, not you," he assured. "Some things just ..."

"Suck?" Stiles smiled his thanks faintly. "Yeah, that they do, but I guess there's a little truth to that silver linings thing, at least. I mean, if none of that had happened, I'd never have met you, right?"

Derek squinted at him like he was absolutely insane and cast a meaningful glance towards the dark bruises forming on Stiles' face. "In what way is meeting me _not_ the worst thing that ever happened to you?"

Stiles grinned and closed his eyes, fingers still wrapped firmly around Derek's wrist and the reassuring feel of his pulse. He wouldn't sleep, no, he needed to stay awake to keep an eye on Derek, but he could just close his eyes for a minute, that would be okay.

"Trust me," he murmured. "It's so not." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we finally know most of Stiles' back story. :) 
> 
> Oh, please note that not everything done in this chapter is necessarily the best possible practice for dealing with injuries like this. Stiles is doing the best he can, but this is certainly not meant to be a primer on how to treat injuries, so... you know, don't do this at home, kids. ;)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another long wait between chapters. _*slaps life with a fish*_

Stiles didn't mean to fall asleep. He had very good intentions of sitting watch over Derek and monitoring his vitals until he was sure he was out of danger. He even had some notion about standing guard in case anyone somehow managed to find them. However, none of that could hold up under the weight of his sheer exhaustion. He'd been through far too much recently and it caught up with him swiftly as soon as his brain was no longer being actively engaged in conversation.

Stiles didn't remember falling asleep. To him it seemed that one moment he was closing his eyes, listening to Derek breathe in the shadowy stillness of the dimly lighted room, and the next he was opening them again to find that all the shadows in the room had rearranged themselves as if in an instant. Light was flooding in around the edges of the cheap curtains, shining into his eyes and filling the room with a musty yellow tint.

Rolling onto his side with a groan, he gasped in pain as his body suddenly and sharply reminded him of all his injuries. Whimpering, Stiles blinked at the clock on the nightstand. A sudden chill of fear struck through him when he finally made out the numbers and realized that he'd been out for almost _12 hours._

"Oh fuck, oh fuck!" Stiles gasped, agitatedly shoving up into a sitting position and ignoring the way his injuries screamed at him over the abrupt motions. He leaned over the still form of the body beside him on the bed in a near panic, terrified that Derek could have _died_ while he was sleeping and he wouldn't have known. 

"Derek?" he whispered, softly at first because he was hesitant to wake him. "Derek!" Worry made his voice rise and he gave the broad, bandaged shoulders an urgent little shake, but the other man still did not stir.

Fumbling around with stiff fingers, Stiles checked Derek's pulse and pushed a hand in front of his nose.  Thankfully, Derek's heart still beat and he was still breathing fine. His skin was no longer pale, but as Stiles pressed his hand to Derek's brow he realized that wasn't necessarily a good sign. The other man was drenched in perspiration and running a fever.   

Rolling out of bed with difficulty, Stiles attempted to stand and nearly fell over as he was hit by just how much he hurt, _everywhere_. He gripped the wall and pressed his forehead against it, breath sobbing softly behind his clenched teeth as he tried not to cry in earnest. He didn't want to move, he didn't want to even _breathe,_ but he had to.

Stiff, thirsty, gritty-eyed and with a headache worse than any hangover he'd ever had, Stiles shuffled painfully into the bathroom.  He drank straight from the tap, splashing the metallic tasting water on his face until he felt, if not better, then at least somewhat less hellish.  His bruises ached like he'd gone ten rounds with a sledgehammer and his many burns were radiating heat and pain, aggravated by the touch of his clothing moving against them. His chest, groin and thighs were the worst. He gripped the edges of the sink, leaning over it and battling tears. He watched water swirl hypnotically down the filthy, rusty drain and tried to settle into the pain enough to function around it.  

After a few minutes he finally looked up into the mirror and was a little surprised by the face looking back at him. "Well, don't you look beautiful," he muttered at himself. "Nice to know you look as good as you feel."  His voice was hoarse and scratchy.  He grimaced at his reflection.

His hair was a wild, sweaty wreck. Purple bruises blossomed across his cheekbone, temple and mouth. He had somehow, miraculously managed not to get a black eye, but dark circles hung beneath both and his lips were split and swollen.

His t-shirt was thoroughly stained with Derek's blood again. Maybe some of his own, he couldn't really tell. It had dried and it all looked more like dirt or chocolate syrup now rather than blood.

His shoulder joints felt so swollen and abused that he could barely lift his arms, but he managed to straighten enough to drag his t-shirt up his chest so he could investigate the damage beneath. More dark bruising striped his chest and mottled his abdomen, some courtesy of the car crash he'd been involved in, but most courtesy of Ames' fists. His burned nipples were a dark, angry, swollen red. They were the worst burns visible, but they weren't the only ones. Kate had used her cruel toy on him much too long and too liberally and his body was striped and dotted with the evidence. Many of the dark red marks disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers.

Stiles dropped his shirt and resisted the urge to look down his pants. It hurt so badly down there that he was sure it would be just as ugly and he felt too queasy to investigate just yet. Maybe there was a part of him that didn't want to know. Kate had done a real number on him.

_Could have been worse,_ he told himself with attempted optimism as he stumbled into the other room to retrieve the Avengers cup. He refilled and brought it to Derek. He tried to get the unconscious man to drink, but Derek still refused to wake.

Stiles poured some of the water on his lips, but it just ran off. He pried Derek's mouth open, but then hesitated. He didn't know if swallowing was automatic, or if he would choke him by pouring water into his mouth when he was like this. Unwilling to risk it, Stiles set the cup aside for now. Soaking washcloths in cold water from the tap, he laid them against Derek's feverish brow and neck.

Stumbling outside, clutching the key and blinking at the overly bright sunlight, Stiles made his way to the ice machine at the end of the row of rooms. The fact that the room actually possessed an ice bucket and that the ice machine was full were about the _only_ two things this motel had going for it. Stiles filled the bucket up to the brim. Thank God for whoever had long ago decided that all motels should provide free ice. He had no idea why that was a thing, but he was glad it was.

Back in the room, Stiles wrapped ice up in hand towels and laid them around Derek's head and under his armpits with some idea of trying to keep his rising temperature down. He propped Derek's head up on a pillow and placed a small ice cube under his tongue. He made sure the man's head was sufficiently angled that there was no way the ice could accidentally slide back to lodge in his throat if it somehow slipped free. He was still worried about any potential choking hazard, but hoped the slow melting process would make Derek swallow the liquid naturally. After all, he reasoned, even when you were asleep or unconscious, you somehow always kept swallowing your own spit, right? So maybe in small enough amounts it would be okay? 

He felt like he was stabbing around in the dark, but he felt like it was vital for Derek to stay hydrated and he didn't know what else to do.

Fingers numb and aching from the ice, Stiles took a moment to apply some of that coldness to his own injuries once he'd finished with Derek. Even wrapped in a washcloth, the ice seemed to bite into his burns, and yet for a few moments the sensation of cold against the overly heated flesh was a welcome kind of pain.

Stiles had picked up a couple of tubes of gel containing Aloe, Lidocaine and some other stuff meant to treat and sooth minor burns at the drug store the previous evening and he now applied some to his reddened flesh, hissing and swearing at the intensity of the agony that touching the burns caused. He had to sit down for a few minutes after that, the world whirling dizzily around him. His light headedness was no doubt being compounded by how very long it had been since he'd eaten anything. He was famished.

After a few minutes, the numbing agent in the gel finally did start to help a little. When Stiles could move again, he dug through the stuff he'd brought in from the car, looking for edibles. He had had the presence of mind to grab the box of canned goods he'd taken from the diner, so he was pretty well set for the time being.  Glad that he'd remembered a can opener and less caring of having forgotten silverware, Stiles opened a can of beans and devoured it cold.  He opened another one for Derek, in case he woke up... but he didn't, so Stiles ended up eating that one too.

His shaking body was demanding energy, but his stomach seemed to disagree and Stiles was caught somewhere in the civil war between the two. He felt sick after eating, the food sitting heavy in his queasy stomach, but at least some of the dizziness receded. He forced himself to keep drinking water and downed a large handful of the over the counter pain meds for the placebo effect of thinking it _ought_ to do something, if nothing else. 

Time passed. Derek remained unconscious. Worried, but hoping it just meant that his body needed to rest and heal; Stiles kept his compresses cold and religiously plied him with a regular stream of ice chips, putting a new one in his mouth every time the previous one melted and regularly checking to make sure his breathing was unobstructed.

Not knowing what else to do, Stiles stayed at the unconscious man's side. He watched the hotel's shitty little TV with bleary eyes, trying to sort his foggy thoughts out into meaningful plans of action while his fingers remained curled around Derek's wrist, monitoring his pulse and frequently checking his temperature.

He tried to use the time to plan and to figure out what their next moves should be, but he felt like crap and his head was fuzzy. Half formed thoughts and plans shifted through his consciousness like fragments of dreams that made sense one minute and became completely ridiculous the next. In the end, he simply ended up drifting off again.

It went on like that for a little while, time taking on a funny, blurry quality that seemed to hold no meaning. Stiles drifted in and out of consciousness, rousing himself long enough to regularly check on Derek, to refresh the cool compresses and laboriously feed him more ice chips to keep him hydrated. Taking care of Derek was the only thing he could figure out, the only thing that made sense. Everything else slid away from him like a beam of light skittering away from the cat trying to pin it down.

Stiles' skin felt hot from the inside out, like there was a furnace inside him that didn't know when to stop. He lay beside Derek in nothing but his boxers and felt like he was roasting, until the heat was replaced by an even more insidious and unshakable chill.  Then he was freezing, cold down to the very marrow of his bones. Shaking, he huddled in against the massive heat radiating from Derek's body for comfort, feeling like that was the only thing keeping him from freezing to death until the cold let go, the ungodly heat returned, and the whole miserable cycle started over again.

Stiles moved; he functioned, but it was a strangely automatic kind of existence, as if his damaged, struggling body had no energy to spare on non-essential things. It was like living inside a dream state. He wasn't entirely sure what parts were real, and what parts weren't.

Sometimes he opened his eyes and his dad was sitting on the edge of the bed, touching his forehead gently, trying to get him to take cherry flavored medicine and asking him where his baseball was.

Sometimes Scott was there, poking him, telling him he was going to be late for the final exam of a class Stiles only now realized he hadn't attended all semester. 

Sometimes Kate was there; leaning over the bed and grinning at him as she gloated over having found them. Grinning as she shot Derek in the head and dragged Stiles back to hell to be her plaything.

Sometimes, Stiles woke screaming. He thrashed at the phantasms until the pain was so bad it physically dragged him out of his fever dreams and he was alone again, in the musty old hotel room, next to the body of an unconscious man who slept like the dead.

At some point, the alternating chills and heat subsided. In a moment of moderate lucidity, Stiles was stirred by the notion that an unknown quantity of time had passed. Afraid of drawing attention by overstaying their original purchase, he ventured out to pay the manager again. He paid for a week this time, to be safe. 

The same scrawny, bearded man from before was in the plastic manager's cage, still watching the same battered TV. He didn't seem to remember Stiles from their previous transaction and had to be reminded of what room number he was in. The man took one look at the teen's bruised face, glassy eyes and perspiration slicked skin and clearly drew the assumption that he was some kind of addict. "Make sure you don't leave no needles nowhere but the trash can," was all he said as he took Stiles' money and then fixed his eyes back onto the TV.  

Stiles was happy enough to be written off as just another junkie if that made him forgettable.  He returned to Derek. He didn't want to leave the room unless he had to. Some part of his mind registered that he was ill, that there was something wrong with him, but it just didn't _matter._ His head was full of cotton and his body full of thorns.

He couldn't seem to stay awake for more than a few hours at a time, but when he slept the nightmares seldom left him in peace for long. Time and again he would wake up, drenched in perspiration and crying out, only to clap his hands over his mouth or bury his face in the pillow, because he knew he mustn't draw attention. He was lucky that either the motel was empty enough, or the other guests apathetic enough, that no one complained about the noise.

Derek remained unresponsive, but his natural bodily functions did not stop with the shuttering of his awareness. He soiled himself and Stiles cleaned him up as best he could. He stripped him out of his already bloodstained and ruined jeans and bathed him where he lay. He got clean linens from the other bed and changed the sheets around Derek, pushing and pulling them out from under him, since he wasn't strong enough to move the other man without assistance. It was gross, yeah, but that wasn't Derek's fault and Stiles didn't begrudge him the need. It was just a thing, a thing that had to be done, so he did it.

Stiles was disturbed and displeased to discover that the bandages he'd applied to Derek's torn ribs had stuck badly to the injuries, adhering to his wounded, oozing flesh as if he were starting to heal around the gauze. This was a lot more disturbing to Stiles than anything else had been. Gagging and having to take breaks to throw up, he managed to get all the stiff, gory gauze peeled away and cleaned out of the injury. For that part, at least, he was glad Derek was unconscious.

The wound was ugly and it stank. Stiles scraped away all the obviously dead looking stuff and flushed the wound with disinfectant. It was bleeding sluggishly again after that, but not as badly as it had the first time at least. Trying to keep the bandages from sticking this time, he slathered the wound in copious amounts of antibiotic ointment before applying clean dressings. He wished to God that he knew what he was doing. He was probably doing this all wrong.

The injury to Derek's shoulder was a lot less messy, but the flesh around the puncture wounds was red and swollen and the injury was leaking a clear, yellowish fluid. He wished he knew if that meant anything. He wished Mrs. McCall were here, or that he'd taken more of an interest in her work at the hospital when he'd had the chance. 

Despite his own malaise, Stiles was beginning to worry again, his fear mounting as Derek's fever continued to rage. He didn't have a thermometer, but it felt like the other man was burning up. Stiles wasn't strong enough to get him into an ice bath, but he buried him in buckets of ice from the machine outside, until the beat up old mattress was soaked and dripped a steady stream of water onto the darkening carpet.

The manager was probably going to be very unhappy with the state of this room when they were done with it. This place did not have any kind of daily cleaning service, but Stiles kept the battered _"Do not Disturb"_ sign out anyway. Through the window, he saw that there was a cart with linens and cleaning supplies parked outside one of the rooms further down the row. Presumably, they only cleaned after the occupant had checked out. Stiles crept out and stole a stack of fresh towels and bedding without being observed.

Worry over Derek's condition finally drove Stiles to clean himself up and drag himself out to one of the free walk-in clinics that he had had Scott find for him when they spoke. He gave a fake name and lied about losing his ID. Either they were used to that routine, or he just looked so awful they took him anyway. He pretended to have a sinus infection so he could get antibiotics. It was an easy lie to sell. He was in fact feverish and he looked sick. The elderly nurse practitioner regarded him with a wary, weary kind of concern but had no problem prescribing him the meds. This was not a great neighborhood and she probably wasn't used to people who looked like him actually coming in just for antibiotics.

He paid cash for the medication, took the pills back to Derek and slid one under his tongue to dissolve. He supplemented the antibiotics with ibuprofen, which the nurse had mentioned was good for fevers, as well as an herbal supplement that, according to the label, was supposed to boost the immune system. With difficulty, he worked a thick plastic drop cloth underneath Derek to protect him from the damp, disgusting mattress. He'd picked up the drop cloth and over the counter meds at a drugstore after moving his jeep to a new hiding place.

Stiles moved his jeep to new hiding places at least three times and changed the plates again too, for good measure. He was probably being completely paranoid, but he just couldn't take the risk of being found. The mere idea of being back under Kate's power again terrified him enough to send him into a panic attack.

With any luck, Kate and her goons thought they were already far away from here on the run, but he was not willing to trust to luck, so he kept his cell in pieces and maintained as low a profile as he could possibly muster.

Stiles struggled to get himself together, to stay on top of the situation and figure out what to do next... but it seemed like surviving and making sure Derek survived was about all he could manage right now.  He wasn't so sure he was even managing that much very well. Some part of him knew his head wasn't right, and there were probably things he should or shouldn't be doing that were escaping him, but whatever those things may be were out of his reach. 

Money was starting to run low and he knew better than to use anything other than strictly cash. It was a good thing the money he had paid Derek for repairing his jeep had still been in Derek's pocket, because that was what was now keeping them afloat. Stiles didn't think that, under the circumstances, Derek would complain.

In the early morning hours of some day with a name Stiles did not know, he was blankly watching a colorful Muppet enthusiastically extol the virtues of the letter _K,_ when something unexpectedly wonderful happened. 

Derek opened his eyes. "I hate this show," he mumbled, voice hoarse and weak around unused vocal chords.

Stiles could have laughed for joy.

Derek was very weak and appeared to have a lot of trouble focusing, but he roused enough that, after a great deal of prodding, Stiles was able to help him drink and eat a little.  Stiles was even able to get him out of bed, supporting the bigger man's stumbling weight as much as he could as he helped him to the bathroom, and then guided him back to lie down on the other, cleaner, bed.

Derek was out again almost as soon as Stiles had him settled, but his repose was not so deep as before. He was restless now, waking frequently, although he did not always seem cognizant of his surroundings. His fever still raged, but Stiles took hope from his companion's increasing responsiveness and plied him with food, water and potty breaks during his intermittent moments of lucidity.

It was a great comfort to Stiles to not feel so alone, even if Derek wasn't all the way there most of the time.  Sometimes he seemed locked inside his own world, even when his eyes were open, but most of the time he was at least marginally aware of Stiles' presence, even if his gaze was glassy and fogged in a way that suggested he wasn't entirely coherent.

Much of the time Derek was silent, but sometimes he would talk and talk in a way that wasn't like him at all, rambling and repeating himself as if he were drunk. Perhaps Stiles should have been worried, but he was just so relieved to hear Derek's voice that he didn't care. So he rested next to him, feeling illogically safe at his side, and was content to mumble moderately appropriate responses. _What_ he said didn't really seem to matter as much as the tone of voice in which he said it.

Apologizing was a popular theme in Derek's less lucid ramblings. He begged forgiveness over and over, and Stiles wasn't sure when Derek was actually speaking to him and when he was speaking to the ghosts of his past. Regardless, he murmured the same repeated reassurances and words of comfort each time, stroking Derek's hair and trying to soothe him.

Stiles quickly ascertained that carrying guilt was something his companion had down to a sort of art form. In one of his slightly more semi-lucid moments, Derek even confessed to feeling bad about the way they had left the station. Stiles didn't make out all of what he was saying, but he got the idea that old man Winnemucca had been good to Derek, believing in him even though he had no reason to do so. Now, he would probably assume that Derek had stolen his truck and left him in the lurch.

Stiles lay beside him as he so often did, his forehead resting against the side of Derek's shoulder because that was the position that made him feel safest. He hated to admit that Derek's concern was probably justified, so he just patted the other man's arm reassuringly instead. "We'll go back when it's all over," he promised. "We'll tell him the truth and make things right. If he's a good guy, he'll understand."

Derek didn't always seem to register Stiles' responses, but he must have this time because he sighed, shifting slightly closer. "You're so sure," he murmured through heavy lips.  "So sure there will ever _be_ an after."

Stiles just nodded against him. He _was_ sure, although he couldn't have said why. He just _believed_ it. He believed they could figure this out, somehow. "There will be, Derek," he promised. "There will be."

The room smelled ghastly by now and Stiles' head was finally beginning to clear enough for him to want to do something about it. With effort, he pushed himself to clean things up. He got rid of the soiled linens and towels he'd been piling in the bathtub, disposing of them in the reeking dumpster behind the motel where they could feel right at home. The next time he spotted the cleaning cart, he stole more towels and sheets. There was nothing he could do for the ruined mattress but wrap the plastic drop cloth around it like a bottom sheet and then cover it with several layers of clean linens to keep it contained. He hosed the room down with Lysol and Fabreeze from the convenience store and that helped, a _little_.

With the tub freed they were able to bathe now, which was a good thing. Stiles drew a bath for Derek and helped wash him down, because that seemed the easiest way to avoid getting Derek's bandages too wet. He also eschewed showers for himself for the time being, because even the weak water pressure mustered by the ancient plumbing was too painful when applied to his blistered skin. Baths were _barely_ tolerable as it was.

Little by little, things started to improve.  Stiles was still hurting and exhausted most of the time, but he was slowly finding it easier to think and to tell dream from reality. He was starting to feel better enough to be antsy again and to remember to resume taking his Adderall more regularly, although he tried to space it out at longer than usual intervals because he didn't have a lot left. 

Derek's fever finally broke and his temperature edged downward.  He was awake for longer and longer stretches of time and began to eat more food. His wounds still looked nasty whenever Stiles changed the dressings, but they didn't bleed anymore and were definitely showing signs of healing and improvement.

Stiles suspected Derek's tough constitution and apparently robust immune system might have more to do with the recovery than his own inept attempts at care, but all that mattered was that Derek was getting better.  Things were finally starting to look up and it gave him hope.

Derek may not be 100% yet, or barely even 40% for that matter, but he made more sense when he talked and for the first time in days Stiles felt like he was really there with him when he was awake. It was an immense relief. 

Derek was aware enough to start asking questions and making sounds about needing to move on, even though he clearly wasn't physically ready to do so yet; a fact which thankfully even he seemed to realize. He was also aware enough to _see_ Stiles and what he was going through in a way that had escaped him previously.

Now, when Stiles woke, crying out in terror or sobbing from the nightmares that assailed him, Derek would pull him close. Spooned against his back, he'd hold him, murmuring wordless assurances against his neck until Stiles' body slowly relaxed and he could breathe again.  The terror fled faster with Derek's presence to push it back. He never pried or asked Stiles about those episodes, seeming to already understand what haunted him, and for that, Stiles was grateful.

He didn't want to talk about it; he just needed someone to be there for him and to not think him weak or pathetic as a consequence. Derek proved surprisingly good at being what he needed.

Stiles was sure Derek must have nightmares too; he had more right to them than anyone, but his reactions were different. Sometimes in his sleep, Derek would moan and toss restlessly, whining softly in his throat. Stiles didn't know if it was from pain or dreams, but whatever the cause, the solution seemed the same. The other man would eventually still and become peaceful once more if Stiles cuddled close and held him long enough. Slowly, they healed and mended, together.

One day Stiles woke up to find Derek sitting up and leaning over him. He blinked a little in surprise, trying to orientate himself, because he didn't recall having a bad dream or anything else that would warrant the intent attention being paid him.  He yawned, a sleepy smile pulling across his features.  

"Oh... hey," Stiles greeted, voice thick with sleep and his eyes crossing slightly as he tried to focus on the nearby face.

Derek was gently touching his chest and he looked sad, although Stiles couldn't understand why. He smiled encouragingly, but the sad look didn't fade and he squinted, trying to figure out what was wrong or if this was just another dream and something bad was about to happen. The dreams where everything started out fine only to quickly turn horrible as soon as you started to relax were the worst.

"I'm sorry," Derek whispered. The familiar words and the concrete feeling of fingers pressing against Stiles' skin reassured him that he was, in fact, awake. "I'm so sorry, Stiles."

Derek had apologized dozens of times when he was raving, but Stiles could tell by his look that this time was different. The words had the force of intent and understanding behind them, not just the vague, raw pain of an overloaded conscience. This difference and the aching intensity of Derek's gaze momentarily froze the accustomed, rote response in his throat.

Stiles was dressed only in a pair of boxers because the room was relatively warm now that he wasn't having those annoying cold flashes anymore and unnecessary clothing irritated his injuries. That left his chest bare and on display. Looking down, he saw that Derek's fingers were resting just below the nasty burns that wrapped around his nipples like ugly, misshapen crescent moons.

The rest of his body didn't look much better. The bruises mottling his pale skin had yellowed at the edges and darkened in the centers over time, managing, in the ironic way of bruises, to look their most horrific at the point when the pain itself was actually finally starting to diminish.  Most of his scrapes had healed up, although the lousy butterfly job he'd done to the cut on his temple was probably going to leave a scar near his hairline. The burns still hurt quite a bit, but Stiles knew they too were mending. They had blistered, and the blisters had recently popped, leaving them raw and ugly and very painful to the touch. Stiles knew the burn gel would help take the edge off, but the problem was that it hurt so damn much going on that it was hard to work up the energy to apply it very frequently.  

Stiles felt moisture drip onto his skin and he realized with a start that Derek was crying, silently. Spurred to action by the unbearable pain in the other man's eyes, he immediately shook his head.

"Hey, hey, whoa ... it's okay," he comforted, fingers gliding up to card reassuringly through the other man's hair. "I'm okay," he promised, words tumbling out quickly. "I know it looks awful, but it's actually a lot better now. You know how bruises are, dude, and you know, they say scars are sexy..."

Derek hushed Stiles gently with a finger to his lips. He didn't cry anymore, but his gaze remained intense. "I'm glad you'll be okay, but I'm still sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry for everything you've been through because of me. Not just ... this ..." he gestured to Stiles' injures as if unsure how to put his feelings into words. "I mean ... this," he waved his hand vaguely at the room around them. "I mean ... _everything._ Stiles, I ..." He shook his head, seeming at a loss. 

"I'm don't remember a lot, not as much as I should, I'm sure, but what you've done, the past few days, the way you've taken care of me, of _everything_ ... I don't even know what to say. I wouldn't have made it without you," he whispered honestly, a mix of awe and confusion in his tone. He did not seem like someone who was used to having anyone do anything for him, and the gentle incomprehension in his eyes was almost heartbreaking.

He cupped Stiles' cheek in his palm, holding him with a kind of reverence that made Stiles feel like blushing. He stroked his thumb against Stiles' cheekbone slowly. "I thought you were a dream, for a while. This amazing person I conjured up because I needed you so much. That scared me," Derek admitted in the barest of whispers.  "I almost didn't want to get better. I think some part of me thought I'd wake up and reality would come back. I'd wake up, and you'd be gone."

Stiles blinked up at the other man, sure that he was grinning an incredibly stupid grin, but unable to help himself. Something in his chest felt warm and tight in all the right ways. Being called _amazing_ in a non-sarcastic context was not really a thing that had ever happened to him before, at least, not with this kind of emotion behind it. He honestly didn't know how to respond.

"Oh. Okay. Well, um, I'm ... I'm real, and not going anywhere, promise," was all he managed to come up with. Impulsively, he leaned up on his elbows and kissed Derek, ever so lightly. The guy's mouth was just _there_ okay? Like, a few inches away, and he was looking at him with so much tenderness that Stiles really couldn't resist. 

Derek froze for a moment, then he reciprocated. He followed as Stiles sank back down to the pillow and the kiss became deeper. Derek's tongue brushed his lips and Stiles opened for him contentedly, one hand curling against the back of Derek's neck as the other man leaned over him.

The contact was gentle, intimate and unhurried. Stiles fell into the soft rhythm of it easily, delighting in the freedom and the funny way the sensations he was experiencing seemed to fill empty places inside him that he hadn't realized existed.

It was the first time they'd really, properly kissed since the night in the fallout shelter. Maybe it was only his imagination, but it seemed to Stiles like there was something deeper about it now then the hot, needy touches they had traded then. That had been lust, excitement and pleasure for the sake of pleasure, and it had been _awesome_.  This was just as delicious, but it wasn't only about the sensation anymore, at least, not for him. It was something else, something he couldn't quite explain. It was like the kisses were an expression of things he didn't know how else to impart; the physical intimacy an almost pale representation of the intense, non-tangible closeness he felt for the other man, aching like a beautiful longing in his chest.

He didn't want to kiss Derek because he was hot, he wanted to kiss him because he was _Derek._ That wasn't a distinction he'd have ever thought to make before, but there it was. The crucible of fire through which they had passed over the past days had cemented whatever initial physical attraction was between them into something that felt a lot more meaningful and important. They had seen both the best and worst of one another and cheated death together in such a short span of time that it could not help but forge a sense of intense connection and bonding.

There was still much they didn't know about one another of course, but as Stiles ran his hands through Derek's hair and caressed the soft curls at the nape of his neck, he felt like that was okay. He looked forward to the journey of finding out more, of discovering everything there was to know about this man. He understood, now, the stupid way Scott and Allison looked at each other. He understood why, even though they had been together for years, they could still spend what seemed like a small eternity just smiling all gooey-eyed at one another like they hadn't seen each other in decades when it had been, like, a _day_. Not that he'd ever match their level of gag-worthiness on the rainbow-unicorn-sparkles scale, but ... he understood. 

Derek's mouth was soft and undemanding against his, as if he too just needed to touch and to taste; to explore this unexpected thing they hadn't gone looking for, but had found anyway.

Stiles' hand glided from his neck down his back, careful to avoid bandages as he caressed the warm skin along his spine. Like him, Derek was currently in nothing but his boxers. A fact that hadn't meant much to Stiles a few minutes ago, but one of which he was now becoming _very_ aware.

The kissing was soft and languid. Neither of them were really trying to take it anywhere, but the heat it kindled was undeniable. Stiles had been focused on nothing but survival for what seemed like a long time. It was wonderful to let go and forget for a bit, to start feeling _alive_ again. Certain parts of his anatomy were definitely waking up and taking interest in a way that hadn't happened in a while.

It was a little ironic, really. Stiles had bathed and cleaned Derek and generally seen him naked more than a few times over the past days, but that had been something different, something necessary. It was only _now_ , when Derek was actually partially clothed, that he was starting to feel aroused.

Okay, more than _starting._ He was getting _incredibly_ aroused. The matter was, in fact, becoming quite _pressing._ Stiles squirmed uncomfortably, his throbbing flesh starting to demand attention. He wasn't sure how appropriate it was to jerk off while you were kissing someone, but slid his hand down to rub himself through his underwear anyway. Unfortunately, the angle of his position meant his arm dragged against some of the worst burns on his abdomen and he let his hand fall away quickly back to his side, the pain too much of a deterrent. He was going to have to do this in a different position and devote more attention to it than he was currently capable of, given the way Derek was deliciously keeping him fully engaged.

Stiles didn't want to stop kissing, so he ignored the problem for as long as he could. Finally, he let his head fall back to the pillow, cheeks flushed and lips parted as he breathed heavily. "Oh God, look what you've done," he groaned, nodding his chin to indicate the positive tent in his boxers.  "Now I have to get up and go take care of this. That sucks, dude. I'm so tired..."

Derek just smiled at him, pressing lightly against his shoulder to forestall any effort to rise. "Then let me take care of it," he murmured, his hand slipping easily beneath the loose waistband of Stiles' boxers and finding him.

Stiles gasped softly in pleasure, his gut fluttering and body tightening at the unexpected feel of Derek's fingers circling his erection. _"Haaa..."_ he breathed, clutching lightly at Derek's arm, enraptured by the unexpected and very welcome sensation.

Derek kissed him deeply. His fist tightened pleasurably and Stiles felt like he might come undone right then. He groaned into the kiss, pulling Derek to him tighter. Derek held him firmly but gently, applying a steady, even pressure as they kissed that made Stiles feel like he was going to go out of his mind.

When he almost couldn't take it anymore and was just about ready to start squirming to try and get more friction, despite how much that would probably hurt, Derek shifted.  He pulled back again, watching Stiles with those amazingly intent and tender eyes as he slowly started stroking him, bringing another soft, wordless sound of pleasure to Stiles' lips.

\----

Derek watched Stiles' face, deeply enjoying the boy's reactions as he gently stroked his cock. Stiles' face was so expressive, like a shifting kaleidoscope of everything he was feeling. His expression was so open and unguarded, so trusting. Every time Derek caressed him there was a kind of glowing, awed edge to the pleasure clearly written across his glazed eyes and his parted, kiss-flushed lips, like Derek's touch was some amazing form of magic.

Derek could get lost in those eyes, and the way they looked at him. He wanted to see more of his pleasure, wanted to give Stiles everything and anything he ever wanted. He wanted to make Stiles happy so much it _ached_ inside him _._

His hand stroked down towards the base of Stiles' cock, playing gently against his balls. He wanted to please, but the expression that flittered across Stiles' expressive face spoke suddenly of pain instead of pleasure. Stiles winced involuntarily, biting his lip at the same moment that Derek realized with confusion and concern that something down here felt _wrong._

Derek stilled, pressing another soft kiss to Stiles' lips before pushing up further onto his elbow. He wasn't moving very easily yet. His muscles felt strange and stiff after all the lying around he'd done recently, and his injuries throbbed painfully when he moved. Gingerly, he shifted until he could carefully pull Stiles' boxers down his thighs.

The action freed Stiles' _very_ aroused erection, but it also allowed Derek to see the ugly, reddened burns and broken blisters around the base of his genitals and on the insides of his thighs. The skin was raw and he couldn't even imagine how much that must hurt, or how excruciating it must have been when the burns were created.

It was like a slap in the face and Derek just stared for a moment, dumbfounded. Stiles may have been naked when he rescued him, but everything had been so hectic that he hadn't absorbed the full extent of his injuries until now. He could have cried all over again for the horrible way that Stiles had been tortured and he was filled with a not unfamiliar, but suddenly even more urgently burning desire to do terrible, terrible things to Kate Argent.

For a long moment, Derek was lost to his own inner storm of pain and rage. Then he looked up, and the expression on Stiles' face slammed him immediately back into the moment.

Stiles was leaning up on his elbows. He gazed at Derek with a clear look of vulnerable hesitation written all over his features, as if he were afraid the marks were a turn-off, or that Derek was somehow going to be disgusted with him.

Stiles swallowed convulsively and rubbed his nose. "Um... yeah, I probably should have mentioned that, huh? Not - not too pretty right now, sorry," he murmured self-consciously. "Don't wig out, okay? It's not as bad as it looks, I just, um, I haven't been putting the gel on as often as I should, I think. So... yeah... maybe I should just, go do that, or something..."  

Stiles half-heartedly started to roll away, as if removing himself from Derek's view was something he felt he needed to do for the other man's sake.

Derek was sure the assertion that the injuries didn't feel as horrible as they looked was a lie. The fact that Stiles was trying to reassure _him_ right now broke something inside him, but weirdly, it wasn't a bad kind of broken. He didn't know how to explain that, or how express what he was feeling, so instead he leaned over Stiles, tenderly caging his body in between his arms to prevent the boy from thinking he had to retreat or run away.

If Stiles resisted, he would have immediately moved away, but Stiles didn't. He stilled, looking up at Derek with those hesitant but trusting eyes. There were faint blotches of pink dotting the boy's face and his gaze darted around with uncharacteristic self-consciousness. _Don't look at me,_ his expression seemed to be saying. _You won't like what you see and there's nothing I can do about it._

Very gently, Derek eased Stiles' boxers all the way off and then spread his legs so that the burns on his thighs weren't chafing one another. Leaning down, he licked deliberately up the undamaged length of Stiles' erection and swirled his tongue around the head, kissing the heated flesh as tenderly as he'd kissed the boy's mouth earlier.

Stiles gave an audible little sound of surprised pleasure that tingled through Derek. Clearly, Stiles hadn't expected _that._ Smiling a little despite himself, Derek lifted his head again.   

"You're beautiful," he murmured, and Derek meant that to the depths of his soul.  Stiles was very physically attractive, he didn't know why the other boy couldn't seem to see that, but that wasn't entirely what he meant. Stiles' _soul_ was beautiful to him. He wasn't sure that actually made sense anywhere outside the possibly over-dramatic reaches of his own scarred and mixed up heart, but he caught and held Stiles' gaze, willing him to understand, to see the things that Derek felt and didn't know how to say.

Stiles blinked at him in that adorably flustered and pleasurably shell-shocked way of his. He gave a small laugh, color riding high on his pale, freckled cheekbones. "W-wow, um, okay... that's... that's sweet, and - and kind of weird, and, uh... thanks?"

He clearly didn't really know what to do with the compliment, and Derek relieved him of having to figure it out by pulling the boy's hard cock fully into his mouth in one careful, deliberate motion.

Stiles groaned and arched into him, his knees bending a little on either side of Derek's shoulders, his hands urgently seeking Derek's hair for purchase. "Oh-oh my God ... Derek ..." he rasped hoarsely, sounding deliciously overwhelmed.

Derek shifted, trying to find a position that didn't strain his own injuries too much, or disturb Stiles'.  Finally he settled on his stomach and elbows, his hands curled loosely around the undamaged outside of Stiles' thighs, his head bobbing carefully between his legs as he swallowed him.

Stiles seemed incapable of doing anything other than gasping for breath for a few minutes, nothing appearing to matter outside Derek's loving touches and the incredible, grasping heat of his mouth. Derek felt the body under him quivering and knew Stiles was already very close. He went slow, pausing and holding, licking and caressing lightly, trying to draw it out and make it last for him.

Stiles' hand twisted in his hair, petting him with a trembling, soft kind of urgency. "Derek... we don't... we don't have any condoms," he panted softly, as if having only finally registered that thought.

"Stiles, we've literally bled all over one another the past few days. If there was anything to catch, I think that ship has sailed," Derek pointed out, releasing Stiles' moist, heated flesh from his mouth so he could speak. "I'm clean and you said you assume you're clean. I'm willing to take the chance, if you're okay with it?" He waited for an answer, watching Stiles from between his thighs. Honestly, given their overall situation, STDs were the least of Derek's worries right now.

Stiles blushed and swallowed, giving a small but enthusiastic nod that indicated he agreed. "Yeah, okay," he said with a shaky smile. "But, um... I'm really close, okay?" he warned hesitantly.

Derek just smiled at him, adoring the way the tips of Stiles' ears flushed pink when he was either embarrassed or aroused.  "Okay," he indicated his understanding before going down on Stiles again.

This was an art he was still learning, but Stiles was an enthusiastic test subject and he got the feeling he was doing it a little better than the first time he'd tried. He found that he really enjoyed exploring Stiles and discovering what actions he liked best. He loved dragging a steady stream of whimpers and gasps from the other boy's trembling lips. It was nothing short of intoxicating.

Stiles' thighs jittered and his stomach tensed, his hips thrusting upward as one deep stroke of Derek's mouth proved to be his tipping point. He gave a jerky, aborted tug at the other man's hair. "Derek!" he gasped, the warning coming too late and turning into a husky cry of desire as orgasm shuddered through him.

Derek made no move to pull away. Unlike the last time he tried this, he resolutely kept Stiles in his mouth, swallowing him down as he came so as to not risk letting anything get in Stiles' wounds that might irritate them further.  He'd never done that before, but found it wasn't as weird or distasteful as he had halfway expected.  In an odd way it was actually kind of hot.

When Derek finally lifted his head, Stiles was a happy, sweaty, trembling wreck under him. "O-okay, wow. _Wow,_ " he murmured appreciatively, fixing Derek with one of those large, lopsided grins that Derek found completely irresistible. "So much wow."  Stiles shook his head with a distinctly dreamy expression. "Um, just... give me a few mins, and it's your turn, okay?"

Stiles looked happy but utterly exhausted and Derek shook his head. "No, not now. You've been taking care of me for days. You need to rest. Let me take just care of you for a little while, okay?" 

Proving how worn out he really was, Stiles reluctantly agreed. "Okay ... but later, all right?  Definitely later. Please?"

Derek smiled and kissed him. "Definitely," he agreed in a definitive tone that made Stiles grin.

He rolled onto his back, resting comfortably beside Stiles as he tried to quietly catch his breath. Taking care of Stiles had gotten him quite worked up, but the throb between his legs was going to have to wait for the much less pleasant throbbing in the rest of his body to calm down a little. His condition was much improved, and his wounds markedly better, but this was more exertion than he'd had in a while, which was really pathetic. He was going to need to start moving around and getting himself back into more mobile shape. Stiles had been shouldering everything for both of them for days and he'd been amazing at it, but that needed to stop, now.

After a minute or two, he roused himself enough to shuffle into the bathroom to relieve himself. It didn't take long. As he washed his hands, he saw the tube of burn gel Stiles had left on the sink counter. He brought it with him when he returned to the other room.

Stiles was halfway dozing, but opened his eyes when Derek sat down on the bed beside him. He'd apparently been too tired to bother putting his boxers back on, or maybe he just hadn't been in a hurry to have the elastic pressing into the burns and bruises on his stomach again. Derek knew he wouldn't be if positions were reversed.

Stiles smiled up at him quizzically when he saw what Derek was holding. "Wouldn't make good lube, dude," he murmured conversationally. "Too sticky."

It was Derek's turn to flush slightly. He raised his eyebrows. "Good to know," he said dryly. He didn't bother saying that that wasn't his intention, he had a feeling Stiles knew that perfectly well. "But it _is_ good for burns, I assume?"

Stiles nodded and shifted a little uneasily. "Yeah... but look, I'll do it later, okay?"

"It hurts?" Derek said, more statement than question as he caressed Stiles' hair.

"Like a bitch," Stiles agreed with a sigh. "Going on, anyway. Once it's on it's pretty good. Too bad you can't just skip the application phase," he muttered.

"What about if I put it on for you? Would that help?" Derek asked.

Stiles seemed to consider this. "Maybe?" he said uncertainly.

Derek smiled and uncapped the tube. "Okay." 

Derek applied the medicated gel to Stiles' burns as gently as he could, but it was clear that it still hurt a lot. Stiles' fists twisted in the bed clothes and his feet worked restlessly, face blanching and creasing in pain as Derek carefully glided the thick gel over the damaged flesh.

Derek paused and slid his free hand beneath Stiles' restlessly clawing fingers. Twining their fingers, he squeezed reassuringly. "Should I stop?" he asked softly.

Stiles had been staring stoically up at the ceiling, panting between parted lips. His gaze dropped back to Derek when the other man took his hand and he smiled around the pain in his eyes. "Nah, it's okay. Needs to be done. I'm good."

Derek was pretty sure _good_ did not describe anything about Stiles' condition. Leaning down he brushed a soft kiss against Stiles' forehead and then his lips, drawing a cutely surprised and pleased expression from the younger boy. "Tell me if it's too much and we'll take a break, okay?" he murmured.

Stiles nodded, squeezing Derek's hand tightly as the other man touched his injured body gently. 

Derek didn't wait for Stiles to tap out. He paused frequently to break up the painful process without prompting and paid equal amounts of attention to the undamaged areas of Stiles' body. He caressed him everywhere, pressing soft kisses onto his warm, trembling skin. He sucked and nibbled and licked, giving Stiles something to focus on other than the hurt and soon not all of Stiles' gasps were from pain.

Stiles eventually came again, and when he was done Derek collapsed onto the bed next to him, exhausted but happy.

Stiles' eyelids were heavy. He didn't seem to want to move, but reached over, his hand coming to rest comfortably on Derek's arm. He sighed, body tingling with left over pleasure and the blessed fingers of relief brought by the numbing agent in the gel finally starting to take effect. 

"Mmm," he hummed contentedly, a small grin playing at the corner of his mouth. "I knew there was a reason I kept you alive."

Derek snorted a soft, almost soundless laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that Stiles and Derek's decision to have unprotected sex is a personal one for them based on their circumstances, and since this is a story, nothing bad will come of it. However, that is not meant to be a guide for any real life situations where things don't always work out as good as in fiction. Please always practice safe sex. :)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter this time round because of difficulty finding a good breaking point, but at least I got it out somewhat quicker! :)

Stiles woke to a delicious and surprisingly familiar scent. It smelled like bacon and eggs and pancakes with syrup and it brought with it such a strong, visceral sensation of _home_ that for a few moments he actually thought he was back in Beacon Hills, in his room, with his father downstairs making breakfast. He opened his eyes and blinked, momentarily jarred and confused by the sight of the motel room when his brain had expected the familiar walls and clutter of the bedroom that had been his for most of his life.

The moment of disorientation and alarm ended quickly, the sense of warmth and safety returning when Stiles saw Derek sitting on the bed beside him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as if he were pleased with himself.

Derek was dressed in a clean t-shirt and jeans that hid his bandages and he looked good. There was a hint of a healthy flush on his face, like he'd been exercising.

Stiles stretched. He found that he was still naked, but that Derek had covered him with one of the clean bed sheets. All his familiar aches and pains were there, but the topical analgesic Derek had applied to his burns was still making itself useful and he felt better than he had in days.

The delicious smell had not been part of a dream, because it was still there. Stiles' stomach rumbled as if to inform him that it was very interested in finding the source, while at the same time lodging a complaint about how long it had been since he'd had anything freshly cooked.  

"Oh my God, what is that? It smells amazing," he mumbled, sitting up and pushing a hand through his messy hair as he blinked away the last remnants of sleep.

Derek grinned at him in a manner that suggested he found something about the way his companion looked both adorable and vaguely amusing. Stiles started to glower at him, but when Derek pushed two large foam take-out container towards him and popped the lids open, he quickly forgave him.

One of the containers held a mound of golden hash browns, fried eggs, sausage links and bacon, while the other contained a giant stack of fluffy pancakes drowning in butter and maple syrup.

It might have just been the most beautiful thing Stiles had ever seen.

"Dude, I love you so much right now," he said happily, nearly bouncing in excitement as he reached out and snagged one of the pieces of bacon with his fingers. It was hot and flavorful, just the right mix of crunchy and chewy. Stiles gave a groan of something like ecstasy as he chewed, sitting up straighter and folding his legs under the sheet so he could more easily reach the food. "Where did you get this?" he asked around a full mouth as he stuffed in half a sausage link and a three-fingered scoop of hash browns. "This is so good!"

Derek looked both amused and pleased as he tossed Stiles a set of plastic cutlery and paper napkins wrapped in cellophane. "A little diner a couple of blocks away. I wasn't sure what you'd want, so I just got everything."

" _That_ was an excellent plan. I fully approve of your planning and decision making processes. Most definitely," Stiles said enthusiastically as he ripped open the cutlery with impatient movements. Derek handed him a large, foam cup of steaming hot coffee, along with a jumble of cream and sugar packets and Stiles beamed like he'd been given the sun. "You totally know the way to my heart," he teased.

"The way to your stomach, anyway," Derek retorted wryly. Stiles' happiness was infectious and he smiled in response, looking away almost self-consciously as he fiddled with his own cup of coffee. "Big breakfast with all the trimmings, that's what you said, right?"

Stiles paused in his almost Olympian efforts to shovel both food and coffee into his mouth at the same time without choking. He blinked and looked over at Derek with a wide, besotted grin as he suddenly remembered when they had sat together by the fallen tree in the river, many days ago, and realized what the other man was talking about. Derek _remembered_ his off-hand joke about what he wanted on their next "morning after".  

"You," he pointed a syrup-sticky plastic fork at Derek. "Are clearly Hallmark Channel worthy boyfriend material, and I will kiss you so big for this as soon as I don't taste like maple syrup anymore.  Well..." he quickly corrected himself. "As soon as I'm done _eating_ it, anyway. No promises on the not tasting like it part."

Derek grinned and ducked his head as if his coffee were suddenly _very_ interesting. Stiles saw the bit of pink flush on his neck and tucked away the interesting notion that Derek liked the idea of him tasting like syrup.  "It's really not a big deal, Stiles. I just got food," he mumbled, as if not sure what to do with Stiles' enthusiastically lavish appreciation. 

"Super delicious food," Stiles corrected cheerfully. "Come on, aren't you gonna try some?" He held a stack of glistening, buttery pancake slices out towards Derek on his fork.  

Derek took another take-out container that Stiles hadn't noticed before off the nightstand and held it up to indicate that he had his own meal.  He tore open a second set of plastic silverware before popping the container's lid and resting it on his leg.

For a few minutes they ate in companionable silence. As Stiles started to slow down and finish the remainder of the feast at something approaching a reasonable pace, he began to notice that despite how much better he looked, Derek appeared a little worn out. The other man's fork hand trembled every so often as he ate.

"How you feeling after all that walking around?" Stiles asked conversationally. Derek really seemed to be doing much better, but he had a feeling the man was intentionally pushing himself, trying to ramp his stamina back up again as quickly as possible.

"Fine," Derek answered, predictably, before eating another bite of eggs. "My ribs still hurt, but my shoulder's moving a lot better," he continued, carefully rotating his injured shoulder to demonstrate.

"Great. That's great." Stiles nodded approvingly. He wasn't going to press Derek about getting winded. They were both of them still healing, but at least they were pretty well out of the danger zone and on the mend now. Enough so that they needed to start seriously thinking about their immediate future.

"So, we really need to think about getting out of here, then," he suggested. "I mean, our luck has held this long, but I feel like we're pushing it. Now that we're both travel-worthy, we should really find a better place to hide. Plus..." he made a face. "The money's just about gone."

Derek nodded, indicating his agreement, but then, Stiles hadn't expected an argument. Derek had already proven that he felt safer when on the move.

"Okay, so the next question is - _where_?" Stiles continued, sipping coffee as he thought out loud. He'd been turning this question over in his mind for a long time, but the most logical answer scared him so he kept trying to find alternatives.

"I feel like, by now, we have to assume Kate and company know who I am," he said speculatively. He'd considered that possibility and thought through its ramifications enough times by now that it no longer made him feel ill with panic and he resolutely swallowed his last bite of hash browns against the tightness in his stomach.

He stacked the empty takeout containers together and put the used silverware inside, pushing them to the edge of the bed and focusing his attention on Derek and the problems before them as he nursed the last of his coffee.

"I mean, it's too much to hope they won't have been able to find a way to run my plates by now, and that will give them everything," he continued practically. "That means we can't risk going anywhere I know, because if they're as good at what they do as they seem, they'll figure out all the places I might run and all the people I might turn to for help and they'll be watching them. Our best bet is just to go somewhere totally random and continue to stay under the radar there while we figure things out."

Stiles wadded and un-wadded the paper napkin he was still clutching in one hand, worrying at it. "I figure, as long as everybody I know just goes on about their daily lives like nothing's happened, they'll let them be for now, right? I mean, there's no point hurting them if they don't know anything, and Kate's best bet is to wait and hope I'll show up or contact someone."  He grimaced. "But... that brings me to this rock and hard place kind of situation, because... because school's out as of next week. If I don't show up at home when Scott and Allison do, and Dad gets as much of the story as Scott knows out of him, which he _will,_ he's gonna come looking for me. And I'm not talking _make a few calls_ kind of looking, I'm talking like, full-blown, practically _launch a federal man-hunt_ kind of looking." Stiles sighed.

"Even if we're so well hidden he can't find us by that time, he'll kick up hell trying. Kate and her people are bound to notice and then he'll be on their radar and they might think he knows things he doesn't or, you know, he _could_ actually start to find things out because he's good at that crap, and my family _knows_ the Argents, Derek, or some of them, anyway. Chris Argent is like, practically my dad's fucking best friend. And I don't know if he's involved or not, but either way that connection will look really suspect to Kate, and she could start thinking like you did that we know things, and they could start to think he's a threat, or someone they need to _talk_ to and ... and ..." Stiles had to stop because there was no more oxygen in his lungs to use for speech. His empty coffee cup rolled away from him and he twisted the napkin in his hands until it tore.

Derek put his mostly empty takeout container on the floor and gripped Stiles' shoulder gently but firmly. "Stiles, breathe," he said quietly.

Stiles already was. He ducked a nod as he sucked in deep, calming breaths, annoyed with himself that he'd let agitation get the better of him even though he'd already been over this mental ground so many times. Somehow speaking it aloud made it more _real,_ though.

"Right, um, so, my point is just that bad things could happen if I disappear without a trace and my dad isn't clued in," he continued a little more calmly. "And, I mean, even all that aside, if they're watching him, it means he's in danger, and I can't not tell him that. I have to warn him. I have a plan for getting in touch with him without tipping off the bad guys. If I can pull that off, then he might be able to help us too, I mean, it makes sense to kill two birds with one stone, right?"

\----

Despite the hopeful nature of his words, Stiles looked anything but eager. He looked physically pained by the prospect of pulling his father into their problems.

"Maybe, except for the part where you look like you'd rather eat gravel," Derek observed. "You don't like your plan, or you don't like asking him for help?" he inquired, tilting his head as he regarded Stiles. "Because we can figure out the money problem on our own, Stiles. I've done it before."

He'd been on the run a long time. He knew how to work with nothing. He knew how to press down his conscience and take what he needed, as long as no one innocent got hurt. Whether or not these were parts of himself he was ready to let Stiles see ... he didn't know.

Stiles made a face and shook his head dismissively. "It's not that," he assured. "I'm not afraid he won't help, I'm afraid he'll want to help _too much_ ," he admitted. "That if he knows what's going on, he won't leave well enough alone, he'll want to get involved and I just ... I _can't,_ I can't get him killed, Derek."

Stiles fixed anguished brown eyes on him. Derek could see in their depths just how terrified Stiles was of that prospect, and how important his father clearly was to him. The young man seemed surprisingly all right with the possibility of his involvement with Derek causing his own death, but looked like he would utterly lose it if anything happened to his dad.

That worried Derek, because he knew Kate and Gerard. He knew how they operated and that there was nothing they wouldn't do to gain an advantage. Kate was brilliant at sussing out what mattered most to people and exploiting it.  If they chose to use his father as a pressure point, that would give them devastating leverage over Stiles. Kidnap his father and tell Stiles they would kill him slowly if he didn't come to them, if he didn't give them Derek, and what would Stiles do?  What _could_ he do? They'd pulled off one rescue, barely, largely because Kate had underestimated them. She wouldn't do that a second time. They couldn't possibly hope for enough luck to survive another such encounter. 

Stiles was unconsciously shredding the napkin into tiny pieces in his lap. Derek reached out and squeezed Stiles' hands between his own, stilling him. "I won't let that happen if I can help it," he promised. He couldn't promise that the worst wouldn't happen, he'd lost too much to believe in fairytales, but he could promise he'd do his damndest to spare Stiles that pain if he could.

A strangely reassuring sense of peace settled over him, because he knew in that moment, that it didn't matter what dirty games Kate may decide to play. Stiles would never have to face that choice, because if it came down to that, Derek would go to them on his own. He'd put a bullet through his own head for Kate before he'd let her rip out Stiles' heart like that.

Stiles dropped the bits of napkin and squeezed back, giving Derek a wan little smile. "Thanks," he said quietly. "Like I said, it's just kind of _rock and hard place,_ here. He's in danger whether I contact him or I don't. So, it makes sense to go for it." He sighed, still sounding deeply unconvinced by his own logic, like there was a war between his head and his heart.

Derek was usually _never_ in favor of going to others for help, because in his experience it always ended badly. He didn't even know Mr. Stilinski and a few days ago he would have argued, but not anymore. If Stiles thought this was the right thing to do, he would trust him. "What's your plan?"

Stiles sucked his lower lip thoughtfully. "Well, easiest way to get in touch is to call, but home, his cell and work are all out because they could, I don't know, be monitoring those lines for all I know. _But_ , there's this shelter my dad volunteers at sometimes and they've got a big event coming up. He and I used to do it together, and I remember looking at a calendar at one point and realizing I wouldn't be able to make it this year because it was the same weekend we were all going to be driving back home, after finals. So, I'm thinking, we go somewhere else and keep laying low until then. I have the cell number of the lady who runs the thing, from last year. She's not somebody I know except from that, so it's a safe contact point. I can call her from a payphone an hour or so before the event when they'll all still be doing set up, and hopefully get her to give the phone to my dad."

Stiles had obviously been putting a lot of thought into this plan and Derek had to agree that it was a good one. He nodded slowly in approval. "I can't imagine even Kate would pick up on that," he agreed.

"Yeah," Stiles sighed, still sounding more resigned than pleased. He got up and pulled his boxers back on with a wince, then retrieved the pieces of his cell phone from the nightstand drawer. He looked at them for a moment, as if weighing them in his hands. 

\----

"I need to turn this on for a minute, to get that lady's cell number.  Then it can go off again for good, but we better be ready to leave as soon as I do that, in case they've got a trace on it by now." Stiles looked to Derek, wondering when having to think like he was living in a Jason Bourne movie had started feeling normal.  

By way of answer, Derek rose wordlessly and started gathering up their belongings.  Stiles set aside the phone and helped him, stuffing everything they wanted to take with into his duffel and a couple of shopping bags, while bundling everything they didn't up into a bed sheet to go to the dumpster on their way out. They didn't want to leave anything suspicious or identifiable behind. The motel manager was not going to like the mess they'd made of one of the beds, or all the missing linens, or the smell, but they were probably used to bad guests. At any rate, Stiles was pretty sure they still had at least one night left on their tab. Nobody would be coming to check on the room until tomorrow at the soonest and by then they'd be long gone.

Stiles had been thinking about it a lot, but he wasn't sure which way they should go from here. It didn't really matter, he supposed, as long as it was _away._ The idea of moving on felt good. He was certainly not going to miss Redstone. He was sure there were better parts of the town than the ones they'd seen, but it wasn't ever going to make his top twenty vacation spots list, that was certain.

Pulling a pair of jeans and a tee from the jumble of clothing before stuffing the rest of it into his duffel, Stiles forced himself to put them on. It did not feel great, but the discomfort was manageable and once he got used to their presence, it wasn't _so_ bad. Like a really bad sunburn, he found that once you settled into a status quo it was all right, it was mainly just sudden touches or changes that hurt.  

Derek volunteered to carry their stuff out to the car and the trash to the dumpster while Stiles took a shot at wiping down the room to remove or at least smudge out as many of their fingerprints as he could. The fact that Stiles wanted to do this seemed to amuse Derek a little, but he didn't argue.

Stiles had to admit as he rubbed door handles and faucets down with a damp cloth, that it _was_ probably unnecessary overkill, since it wasn't like a team of CSI's were likely to come combing the room for them, and if they _did_ there was undoubtedly plenty of their DNA to be found. At this point, however, Stiles would simply rather be safe than sorry.

Derek returned and Stiles gave the room a last once over before finally retrieving his phone. He slotted the battery and snapped on the back of the phone in place. As it booted up, he pondered whether it would be best to turn it back off again after he got what he needed, or to do a factory reset to remove all his data, leave it on, and toss it in the back of a pickup truck going the opposite direction or something, thereby giving any potential pursuers a false trail to follow.

He was still mentally weighing those options when his phone started chirruping and dinging a slew of notifications at him, as if annoyed by how long it had been ignored. Stiles found himself confronted with over a hundred new text and voice messages from Scott. It looked like his friend had been calling him every few hours for days. A quick glance told him that Scott had been trying desperately to reach him ever since they last spoke, the texts growing increasingly frantic until they devolved into a repeated series of all-cap messages along the lines of " _CALL OR TEXT ME RIGHT NOW IF YOU'RE NOT DEAD!!!_ "

The last one added an ultimatum that made Stiles' stomach lurch.

" _STILES I NEED TO KNOW YOU'RE OKAY OR I AM CALLING THE FUCKING POLICE. NOT KIDDING._ "

Stiles bit his lip until it turned white. The last message had been sent around six hours ago. He was tempted to say his friend was overreacting, but looking at the messages he realized how much time had passed since his last conversation with Scott and he knew that if their positions were reversed, he would have been just as anxious. He hadn't meant to leave Scott hanging like that, but time had really gotten away from him during their convalescence.

"Crap, crap, crap," he swore under his breath, pushing agitated fingers through his hair and trying to figure out what to do. He'd been worried about his father causing trouble and drawing attention. He hadn't thought to worry about Scott, but he realized he should have. He really should have.

Derek was looking at him with a concerned frown, but before Stiles could say anything to explain, the phone in his hand started ringing. Caller ID said it was, unsurprisingly, Scott.  

Stiles hesitated for just a moment before pressing the talk button and moving the phone quickly to his ear. He knew Scott wasn't going to give up easily and he could only hope he was still in time to forestall him from doing something disastrous like getting the police involved, or worse, calling his father. 

"Hey... Scotty!" Stiles said lamely, thinking furiously and having no idea what he was going to say. What could he tell him? It was perhaps incredibly selfish, but he found he desperately _wanted_ to tell him the truth, despite the danger to them both. He didn't know if Scott would be safer knowing or not knowing, at this point. He suddenly ached to lay out the whole mess for his best friend in one long, run-on sentence because this was _Scott_ and they shared everything... but this particular mess also involved Allison and _that_ complicated everything immensely. 

Would he even _believe_ Stiles about something this incredible?  Especially since it meant accepting some pretty monstrous facts about Allison's family?  Would _she_ believe it? He couldn't imagine that was going to be easy.  

In the back of his mind, he'd known all along that they were eventually going to need to be clued in, but there was a part of Stiles that was afraid. He was afraid of what would happen if he told them and Allison refused to accept it. He and Scott were like brothers, but Scott loved Allison more than anything under the sun. Stiles would never make him choose between them; half for Scott's sake, and half for his own, because he was more than a little afraid of what that choice would be. There were many things Stiles was willing to lose. Scott wasn't one of them.

Perhaps there was a middle ground. Some lie with enough truth to keep them all safe for a little longer. His mind was still tumbling, whirling urgently with the attempt to figure out how much of the truth he could safely tell, and what parts he was going to need to lie about, when Scott shocked the words right out of him.

"Stiles?  Stiles!" There was so much relief and barely hidden pain and concern in Scott's voice that it almost hurt to hear it.  "Oh, thank _God!  Dude,_ I've been trying to reach you for _days!_ I'm in Redstone. We've been driving around checking hospitals and hotels for you since yesterday, where the hell are you?!"


	20. Chapter 20

Stiles paced back and forth, watching dust motes dance amid the pattern of sun and shadow being cast onto the dirty concrete floor by the small, grated windows set high up in the walls. He had chewed his left thumbnail down to the quick but continued to worry at it anyway. They'd only been there a few minutes, but it felt like years and he thought maybe he was going to crawl right out of his skin if they had to wait much longer.

Derek looked grim, but much more composed. He stood in a pool of shadow, leaning against one of the rusty metal stanchions that used to support some kind of crane or loading equipment. The abandoned building in which they had arranged to meet Scott had once housed an old train station where freight must have been loaded and unloaded.  The rusting tracks that ran through the place didn't look like they'd seen use in years and most of the glass had been broken out of the grated half-windows above them.

The old structure was partially below ground, putting the high-set, half-size windows at street level. From here they had a decent view of who was coming and going on the street above, without being able to be easily be observed in return because of the angle. You'd have to stoop and intentionally look inside before you'd see down to the main loading floor, and you had to pass in front of the windows to reach the building's entrances. 

Derek had noticed the place earlier when he'd gone out for their breakfast, and had chosen it as a meeting place for those reasons. It wasn't perfect, but it turned out that the train tunnels provided multiple exit points not easily observed from the street and with their limited knowledge of this city, this was the best that could be done on short notice.

Stiles still couldn't believe Scott was _here._ He knew it was his fault his friend had been able to track them down. He'd not been very careful or thinking very straight when he called Scott for help. He'd had him look up clinics in Redstone without even thinking about the fact that that gave away his location. Now he was stuck with conflicting feelings of worry and anticipation. He _wanted_ to see Scott, and yet his presence could be a disaster for all of them.

It was too dangerous to keep Stiles' phone on, so they'd only spoken long enough for Stiles to find out that his friend had thankfully _not_ actually called either the police or his father, _yet_. Scott was well past the point of being put off with vague reassurances by now, however, and nothing but seeing Stiles face to face was going to satisfy him.

Stiles had told Scott to not do anything else until they spoke, and to be sure they weren't followed. Scott had promised, but Stiles wasn't sure he took the injunction seriously enough, so he and Derek had the jeep parked a few streets over, hidden behind a dumpster. They had scouted out the best way to get there from the meeting place without exposing themselves to any open spaces or main thoroughfares. In short, they had their egress plan in place, and that made Stiles feel better. Plus, how often did he get to use _egress plan_ in an actual sentence? Despite the circumstances, there was no denying that was at least a _little_ cool.

Derek did not share his feelings on that topic and Stiles had not even been able to coax a glimmer of a smile from him. The older man had been tense and quiet since the meeting was arranged. Stiles knew Derek didn't like what they were about to do at all. Derek would have been much happier if they had simply hit the road immediately and put as much distance as possible between themselves and this town. He'd said as much in no uncertain terms. Stiles understood, but he couldn't do that. He appreciated that Derek had gone along without much of a fight, even if he did not approve.

Meeting was dangerous, Stiles knew that, but no more dangerous than it would be to let Scott blunder around any further without knowing what was going on. If he'd been going around incautiously searching town for Stiles since yesterday, he could have already drawn attention. He could already be in danger. Besides, the last thing they needed was to have more people looking for them, especially the police, which is exactly what would happen if someone reported Stiles as missing. It would be far too easy for Kate to use the police's search to do her work for her.

Through the windows, Stiles saw a car pull up and park on the street above, near one end of the building. Although this building was abandoned, the area around it was not. Several cars had already come and gone from the on-street parking spaces out front in the short time they'd been here, but this one, Stiles recognized. 

He drew a deep breath and then blew it out, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand and glancing over at Derek. Thus far, he'd only talked to Derek about meeting with Scott, but the truth was Scott had said _we_ when he spoke to Stiles, and the second he saw the car, Stiles knew that the suspicions he hadn't quite wanted to mention to Derek were correct.

Scott hadn't come alone. He'd arrived in Allison's car, which probably meant that Allison was with him. 

Through the windows, they saw two sets of legs make their way around the front of the building, searching for a way inside. The main entrance was boarded up tight and they spent a minute examining it before moving on to find an alternative. One set of feet were clearly male, and the other just as clearly female.  After a minute they disappeared from view and the sound of scraping and squeaking metal indicated that they'd found the busted side-door, just like Stiles and Derek had. The soft sounds of the new arrivals working their way through the gap and climbing around the piles of junk that blocked most of the upper level removed any possible doubt that they were headed this way.

Stiles felt Derek looking at him and shot him a guilty look.

"Do we need to run, or are those your friends?" Derek looked tense, but not entirely surprised and that made Stiles feel worse.

He knew he should have told Derek about the possibility that Scott may not be alone. He should not have dropped Derek into a situation where he was going to be in the same room as an Argent without any warning. It was a dick move and it didn't improve matters that he'd done it because he was afraid Derek wouldn't agree to the meet if he'd known. He should have trusted him more, and now it was too late to fix that mistake.

Derek's body tightened fractionally as he took in the much too obvious expression of guilt on Stiles' face. Behind him, Stiles heard footsteps on the metal stairs that led down from the upper level to this lower portion of the old station. He saw Derek's gaze shift over his shoulder and fix on something. Derek still didn't look surprised, but Stiles saw the other man's breath catch in his chest as recognized Allison.  Stiles wanted to punch himself. 

"Do we need to run?" Derek repeated, the question quiet and his expression unreadable.

Stiles swallowed and shook his head. "Not from them, I promise," he whispered, suddenly desperately afraid that Derek would think he had betrayed him. Again. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm an idiot and I screwed this up._

Something flickered behind Derek's eyes, but he didn't look mad.  "Okay," was all he said, giving Stiles a small, surprisingly trusting nod. His body was still rigid with tension, but there was no accusation or mistrust in his gaze.

Stiles realized with a small lurch that Derek trusted him. Trusted him enough to go with him on this, even when every instinct the other man had was clearly telling him to get out of there. That meant a lot to him and Stiles gave Derek a warm, shaky smile of thanks.

Derek didn't smile back, but something in his eyes warmed gently in response, telling Stiles that they were okay.

"Stiles!" the voice drew Stiles' attention and made him turn around. Scott and Allison had gained the lower floor and Scott practically ran to him. Before Stiles knew what was happening, Scott had him in a tight hug of greeting, and even though that kind of hurt, it also felt really good.

"You had me _so_ worried, man," Scott's voice was light, but there was a soft, serious undercurrent beneath the happy tone. "Don't do that again, okay?" 

"Yeah ... sorry, things kind of got... complicated." Stiles hugged back, clapping Scott's shoulder and inhaling his friend's familiar scent. The contact was brief, but the familiar touch and the smell of the other boy made Stiles instantly homesick, grounding him back to a reality that had begun to feel strangely distant and unreal until right this moment.

Scott pulled back, looking Stiles up and down with a critical eye, the effect of which was marred by the huge, relieved grin he was wearing. "You look horrible, dude," he observed cheerfully. "And what is with all the cloak and dagger and meeting in abandoned buildings? I feel like we're buying drugs or something."

"Like you would even know _how_ to buy drugs," Stiles scoffed wryly.

Allison was hanging back. Her smile echoed Scott's relief, but she was content to let the two boys get their greetings out of the way first. A little more observant of her surroundings than her boyfriend, she was shooting curious glances at Derek, who was in turn blatantly staring at her with a calm but not very friendly expression on his face.

_Well. This was going to get awkward, fast, wasn't it?_

"Hey, so, um, this is my friend Derek," Stiles briefly introduced. "Derek, Scott and Allison."  Hands flapping, he nodded back and forth between them all rapidly, rushing through the introduction. "What are you two _doing_ here?" he changed the topic quickly, fixing both Scott and Allison with an inquiring gaze. "Aren't you supposed to be up to your eyeballs in exams right now?!"

"Dude, the last time you called me you were trying to figure out how to know if you were _bleeding to death_ ," Scott pointed out. "I was worried, okay? I waited for you to call me back. I called, I left messages..."

" _Dozens_ of messages," Allison supplied with a hint of wryness that didn't diminish the lingering concern in her eyes. Her gaze kept being drawn to the fading bruises and scabs that were visible on Stiles' face and arms, especially the yellow-brown ligature marks that ringed his wrists like bracelets. The majority of his healing injuries were hidden beneath his clothing, but she could obviously tell that all was not well.

Scott nodded. "I kept telling myself that you would have told me if something serious were going on. You said it was research, and there was someone else with you, so I thought ... maybe you'd just gotten involved with someone and were on the trail of one of your mysteries, you know? I figured you'd call when you were ready, but you never did, and after a while I started getting scared. We both did," he glanced towards Allison.

"We thought maybe we should call your dad," she said by way of agreement.  

"You didn't though, right?" Stiles interrupted. "You said you didn't call anybody," he pressed with some urgency, needing to be sure of this.

Scott gave him a consternated and confused look. "No," he said with a sigh. "We probably should have, but  we didn't." The way he said it suggested that had mostly been his call, and that he and Allison had probably disagreed on the subject. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little conflicted. "I know you didn't want me talking to your dad until you did, and I didn't know _what_ we'd tell the cops if I called them. Besides, I kind of thought ... you might be like ... in trouble, or something," he admitted. "Because, I mean, otherwise, if you or somebody with you really were actually bleeding badly enough to need a transfusion, you'd be calling 911, not me."

Scott fixed Stiles with a concerned, searching gaze that knew him too well. They had been partners in crime since preschool. They'd never been in any _serious_ trouble, mostly because they'd rarely gotten caught, but Scott knew all about the many slightly less than legal things Stiles had done in his life when he felt the cause was just, the mystery too compelling, or the adventure too great to resist.

"Stiles, what's going on?"

"A lot," Stiles sighed, feeling swamped by the enormity of what he had to explain. "You came here because I had you look up clinics in this area, didn't you?" he asked, stalling as he tried to figure out where to even begin.

"Yeah," Scott agreed. "I knew it was a long shot that you'd still be here, but I didn't know where else to look. I thought maybe I could find you myself, or find ... I don't know, _something._ If I couldn't... then I _was_ going to call your dad," he admitted. "I asked Allison if I could borrow her car -"

"As _if_ I would have let you go alone," Allison put in, shooting Scott a fondly annoyed look.

Stiles got the feeling that Allison had been a little more convinced than Scott that their friend had gone off the grid of his own volition and would turn up again when he was done with whatever his latest misadventure turned out to be. It wouldn't have been the first time. Once she realized how worried Scott was, however, there was no way she wouldn't have backed him up, Stiles knew.

Scott gave Allison a small, brilliant little smile. "So we came together," he continued, his gaze shifting back to Stiles again. "We took turns and drove straight through," he added. "Got here yesterday. We checked all the hospitals and emergency rooms and then started checking hotels."

"Shockingly, driving around town all day looking out the window hoping to spot you didn't get us very far," Allison said ruefully, but she was smiling as she said it. "We were trying to figure out what to do next if we had no better luck today, when you finally picked up."

"You're both crazy, you know that, right?" Stiles gave them a crooked smile. Despite his concerns about the ripples they might have caused, he could not help but be touched that they cared enough to drop everything and come looking for him like this. "Thanks, really, but ... isn't school still going?  Aren't there big tests you're supposed to be taking right now?" He frowned, automatically patting his pocket as if he could check his phone to see whether he was wrong and still confused about what day it was. "Tell me you didn't ditch finals just to come look for me?" the question was sarcastic, until he saw the looks on their faces and his eyes widened in surprise. "Oh my God, you totally did," he blurted incredulously.  

Scott lifted his chin stubbornly. "Only three of them," he said, which pretty much meant _yes,_ since Stiles was perfectly aware they'd only been taking four classes.

"We turned our projects in early and probably would have done pretty well otherwise. Missing the final exams shouldn't drop us down enough to fail any of them," Allison put in bravely, and Stiles knew what a sacrifice this truly was for her because she cared a lot more about her GPA than Scott did. 

He gaped at them, not sure what to say.

"Stiles, you've had us worried sick. Please, tell us what's going on," Scott begged earnestly, glancing between Stiles and Derek, who continued to stand behind Stiles, quiet as a mute. "You look like crap, man?  What's happened?"

Stiles couldn't deny that face, that imploring look. It was useless anyway. They were already here, already in danger by association. It was too late to protect them with lies, even if he had the heart to do so. His gaze flittered to Derek, looking for support more than permission. Derek said nothing, but gave him the very smallest of nods.

Stiles inhaled deeply, and told them everything.

\----

Derek studied the two newcomers. He'd seen them before in the photos on Stiles' phone, but they were still strangers to him. The girl, the Argent, she had curly brown hair and was wearing a floral top with dark skinny jeans and boots. The boy was clean shaven with short dark hair. He was sporting a long sleeved olive shirt with the sleeves pushed up, jeans and sketchers. They _looked_ like college students, or what he imagined college students looked like, anyway.

Derek watched the expected emotions of shock and disbelief flow across their faces as Stiles related their story, which had once just been Derek's story, but had now undeniably become _theirs._ He didn't interject, allowing Stiles to tell it in his own way from the early days of Derek's life, to their most recent misadventures and close calls. He was surprised, actually, how well Stiles remembered all the details of the story he had related to him only once, well over a week before. Stiles could seem spacey and spastic at times, but Derek was beginning to understand that he had a mind like a trap for things he felt were important.

Derek wondered what they would think, these two young people who had never seen the depths of darkness and cruelty that life had to offer. Could they possibly accept a truth so fantastically far outside the lines of what life had taught them was normal? Most people couldn't. Stiles was the first, in his experience.

Stiles hadn't lived this life as long as he had. He didn't know yet. He didn't know how people were. Maybe he needed to learn, in order to survive, but Derek found himself wishing he didn't have to. He found himself wishing, however futility it may be, that Stiles could keep these friends he cared so much about; that they would not break his heart and leave him empty, or worse. For the first time in a long time, he wished the world was someplace better than it was, because Stiles deserved a better world.  

It was an incredible, almost unbelievable story when told like this, with no proof but the conviction of the teller, and Derek was not surprised by the incredulity with which it was met, especially from the Argent girl. He was trying not to hate her until she gave him a reason to do so. He was trying, for Stiles' sake, not to let her name form the whole of his impression about her. So, in all fairness, he could not really blame her for being horrified by what she was hearing and for not wanting to believe the story. Who would? 

Allison held up her hands and shook her head, looking at Stiles like maybe this was all some really poor quality joke. "Stiles, that's not ... that's not _possible,_ okay? Why would you say things like that?  That's _crazy!_ " she protested with horror and hurt in her voice, unable to accept what she was hearing.

"I know it sounds that way," Stiles argued. "I had a hard time believing it at first too, but -"

" _But,_ you want me to believe that my family is some kind of Godfather-esque bunch of _monsters_ behind this massive conspiracy that doesn't even make sense, and that my father, _my father,_ is a _killer?_ " Allison seemed more wounded and incredulous than angry. "You need help." The words were said in irritation, but the instant they left her lips something in her eyes shifted and her expression immediately softened.

"Oh, God. Stiles..." her voice had become gentler, something protective creeping in around the edges. "I'm sorry. Everything's been so shitty lately with stupid Matt, and the stupid school and all that pressure ... and you've obviously been hurt," she whispered, looking worriedly at Scott and then back to Stiles, her gaze tracing his bruises. "Let's just all go back home together, all right? Everything will be okay. Whatever's going on, we'll get through it."  She shot Derek a protectively dark, suspicious look, as if suspecting that whatever was wrong with Stiles was his fault, which, Derek supposed, was true, even if not in the way that she imagined.

Allison meant well and was genuine in her concern, but something about what and the way she said it clearly struck a nerve in Stiles.  "I'm _not crazy_!" he snapped, hugging himself defiantly. "I am _not_ making this up, or imagining things, or having some kind of fucking mental breakdown!" The vehemence of his knee-jerk response suggested there was history behind it.

"Of course you're not. We know that, Stiles, okay?  We know," Scott assured quickly, the speed with which he jumped in to sooth the thought away suggesting that, unlike Allison, he was familiar with whatever old hurt lay behind his friend's reaction. He rubbed his neck, looking a little lost and confused even as he tried to smile. "You gotta admit it's just a lot to take in all at once, right?" he shook his head. "I mean... _Dude._ You really don't do things half-way, do you?" 

Allison was looking at him. "Scott, you don't really..." she stopped herself as if unwilling to finish the question in front of Stiles.

"Look, I know ...  but ... if he says something's going on, then _something_ _is_ ," Scott countered with earnest conviction. His searching gaze shifted back to Stiles. "How sure are you about this? About all the connections? I mean ... is this just a theory?" he asked, almost hopefully. "Are you positive we're all talking about the _same_ Argents?"

"Yes, I am. This isn't a _theory._ " Stiles' tone said he had expected the general disbelief, but that that didn't make it any easier to deal with. Reaching down, he yanked up his t-shirt, exposing the dark, ugly bruises and the scabbed, healing burns that mottled his pale flesh. "Does this _look_ like a _theory_?" he demanded.

Scott's eyes widened and he stared, horrified. Allison actually gasped, pressing her hand to her mouth.

Stiles turned towards her, giving her a full view of the damage.  "Your psycho aunt fucking _tortured_ me, okay? For _hours._ Derek got shot _and_ stabbed getting me out of there and he has the bandages to prove it. She tried to kill us; she is _still_ trying to kill us. I'm not _lying._ I wouldn't lie to you about something like this! I _know_ it all sounds impossible, but you have to believe me!" he pleaded, a note of anguish creeping into his tone. "Why would I make up something this twisted?"

Stiles was shaking, his hand trembling visibly as he gripped the hem of his shirt with white knuckles. Derek reached out and curled his hand reassuringly over Stiles', gently guiding it back down. Stiles released his shirt and grabbed onto Derek. He twined their fingers together and held on. For a moment, Derek saw the tears hanging unshed in his eyes before Stiles quickly looked down and away, as if seeking, unsuccessfully, to hide the unwanted emotions from everyone present.

Scott stepped forward immediately and Derek tensed, ready to protect, but it was unnecessary. Scott simply rested his hand on Stiles' shoulder in a gentle, comforting gesture. He tilted his head, trying to get Stiles to look at him.

"We believe you, Stiles," he promised, his voice suddenly thick and his expression full of compassionate pain. He glanced back over his shoulder towards Allison, who was still standing there, looking ill and torn and lost. Raw anguish flickered in the boy's eyes he realized he could only speak for himself.  "I believe you," he repeated softly. "We'll figure this all out, okay?  We will, I promise."

Stiles reached for him with something like a small sob and they embraced. Scott held him carefully this time, now that he realized his friend was injured. Stiles melted into him with a relieved, intimate familiarity that might have made an ungracious part of Derek inclined to feel jealous, if he hadn't already begun to understand how important these friends were to Stiles, and, given his recent history, how much it would hurt him to tell the truth and not be believed by them, of all people.

Scott and Stiles held onto each other for a few long moments before they finally separated. Stiles wiped his cheeks hurriedly and Scott pretended not to see as he rubbed moisture from his own face with his sleeve. Hand still resting protectively on Stiles' shoulder, Scott turned back to Allison with a pleading look on his face.

"Allison," he murmured. "I don't want this to be true, okay? I don't. None of us do," he squeezed Stiles' shoulder. "I get that it all seems crazy and maybe there are parts of this we don't fully understand yet, but ... I mean, you don't really _know_ your grandfather or your aunt all that well, right? You haven't seen them in years, not since you moved to Beacon Hills and... I mean... it's possible there's a _reason_ your dad cut ties with them so completely, isn't it? Why he's been so against you ever seeing or talking to them?"

Allison hugged herself, jamming her fists into her armpits as if she were cold, despite the warmth of the non-air conditioned building. She gave the barest of nods. "I guess... it's... it's _possible,_ " she conceded dubiously, although it was obviously a struggle.

"I'm not saying you're lying, Stiles, okay? I'm not saying that," she shook her head and began to pace with agitation, still clutching her own sides like she needed to physically hold herself together. "I believe that _you_ believe what you're saying, and that something really terrible _is_ going on. I just ... I don't know what to ... I can't. Scott... I _can't_. Maybe Grandpa and Aunt Kate... I - I don't know ... but I can't ... not my dad. That _isn't_ possible. There's no _way_ my dad could have been involved in stuff like that. No way he would have had any part in killing _kids_ and ... and ... how could _anyone_ do those things?!"

Allison turned away, trying to hide the confused, unbidden tears that had started escaping down her cheeks. Scott went to her, folding her in his arms and curling her head to his chest. He petted her hair reassuringly, his expression sad and fierce, as if it killed him to see two of the most important people in his life going through so much pain and he wished he could just take it all away and protect them.

"People will do a lot to survive, and to protect those they love," Derek said quietly, his hands falling to rest on Stiles' shoulders. It was the first time he'd spoken during the entire encounter and everyone immediately looked at him. Well, everyone except Stiles, who was facing away from him. Stiles leaned back into him, instead, and Derek moved in to meet him, his chest resting lightly against the other boy's back.

"I never met you, when we all lived in Stratton." Derek's gaze fixed on Allison. "But I knew your father, a little. He used to play ball with us sometimes. I remember, he was so patient with my sister always wanting him to teach her to throw, even though she already knew how. He was there the night she died and I don't know that I can ever forgive him for that, but he didn't kill her, and for some reason he didn't kill me when he could have. Maybe that was an accident, or maybe it was a choice. I don't know. People change. Good people can end up in bad places. If he really took you away from his family, maybe he was trying to do the right thing by you. Maybe keeping silent and staying apart was all he could do to protect you. I don't know, but I do know that Gerard and Kate are utterly ruthless and if you truly knew _none_ of this, then you are all in a lot of danger now."

Scott and Allison were important to Stiles, so Derek spoke when he might otherwise have stayed silent. He couldn't bring himself to feel much for the girl's struggle with this ugly truth, but he was surprised to find that he truly didn't hate her, either.  Now that he had met her, he believed in a way he hadn't before, that this was in fact all new to her. He believed now that she was innocent of his family's blood. He was not like Kate and Gerard; he would not condemn a whole bloodline over the actions of a few.  All people had choice.  Allison would have to make hers now, and he didn't envy her that one bit.

Allison pulled away from Scott, wiping her face and trying to compose herself. She looked at Derek and then away and drew in several deep breaths. "Okay... okay," she breathed, the words not so much an agreement with anything as a method of trying to center herself.  "I need to talk to my father."

"No! You can't! Are you crazy!" Stiles freaked out a little at the suggestion, pulling away from Derek and gesturing wildly. "You can't talk to him about this! You can't let _anyone_ know you know!  Did you _not_ hear what Derek just said? It's dangerous!"

Allison shook her head stubbornly. "He's my _father,_ Stiles," she retorted. "I trust him with my _life_ and if I'm going to even _consider_ believing these things, I need to give him a chance to explain or refute and tell his side of the story.  What would _you_ do if someone were saying these about _your_ father, Stiles?  You'd do the same, you know you would."

Stiles let out a frustrated sigh and ran both hands through his hair, clearly conceding to her point. "Yeah, okay, I guess so," he mumbled. "But... we're going to have to be careful about it."

Just then movement outside the windows above drew their attention.  A new car had pulled up and parked behind Allison's.  It looked like a black SUV and maybe Derek was being paranoid, but he immediately felt a swell of tension flood his body.

He was, unfortunately, not being paranoid.

\----

Several sets of legs got out of the car, mostly male and at least one female. The woman spoke, and Stiles abruptly couldn't breathe. He didn't even register whatever it was she'd said. It was Kate's voice and having her so close terrified him a lot more than he wanted to admit.

Scott, observing how pale both Stiles and Derek had just gone, moved closer to the wall and craned his neck upward, trying to see more of the new arrivals through the grated slits. Allison joined him, hopping up onto an empty oil drum in order to get a better look as the feet crossed in front of the building, trying the main door like they had earlier.

Allison stiffened suddenly, sucking in a sharp breath. She looked like she'd seen a ghost. She wobbled on her perch and Scott quickly reached out to steady her and pull her down off the barrel. Allison went along numbly. Her gaze shot to Stiles and her eyes were wide. "Oh my God," she breathed. "That's... It looks like ... I mean, I haven't seen her in a long time but ... Aunt Kate's outside." The last was a whisper. She looked like the world had just crashed in on her.

Stiles was aware and yet not aware of these things, as if a gossamer fog had settled across everything.

"Which means we need to get out of here. Stiles?  Stiles!" Derek hissed quietly, grabbing Stiles' elbow and practically dragging him forward. 

The motion lurched Stiles out of the strange paralysis that had momentarily ensnared him. He inhaled quickly - once, twice - and then he was back and everything was almost painfully clear and sharp around him, crisply outlined in its immediacy. "Right. Come on, we've got a way out," he whispered, hurrying towards the end of the platform, a few dozen yards away. "You'll have to come with us, they can't find you here," He gestured urgently for Scott and Allison to follow as he and Derek dropped down onto the tracks and ducked into the tunnel. 

Stiles stumbled along the tracks in the darkness, trying to look over his shoulder to make sure Scott and Allison were following them while Derek tugged at him, trying to urge him into a faster pace. As soon as Stiles heard the crunch of his friends' footsteps on the gravel behind him, he sped up.

He tripped over an uneven railroad tie and Derek caught him by the elbow to steady him.

"They led them to us," Derek whispered in his ear, his voice flat.

Stiles bit his lip and shook his head as they ran. "Probably, yeah, but not intentionally," he whispered back. Kate showing up like this could not be a coincidence. Scott and Allison must have attracted attention when they started asking around for him yesterday. Either that, or Kate had already figured out the people closest to him and put a watch on them, as he'd feared, and the suddenness with Scott and Allison left school had triggered an interest in following them.

"They wouldn't give us away," he said with conviction. "They _couldn't_ have, anyway, they didn't even know anything until just now. They must have been followed. I'm sorry," Stiles murmured. "This is my fault." He glanced back over his shoulder, feeling sick as he realized he'd done exactly what he hadn't wanted to do. He'd exposed Derek to discovery and pulled more of the people he cared about into danger with him.

Derek squeezed his elbow in the darkness. "No, it's not."

Their pre-planned escape route served them well. If Kate's people knew what they were doing, which Stiles was sure they did, they had probably surrounded the building and covered the rear exits, but you couldn't see the train tunnels from street level, and that bought them time. Also on their side was the fact that Kate and her people hadn't rushed the place. In the short glimpse he'd gotten of them, it had looked like they were going slow and looking around, meaning they mustn't be sure that their quarry was in there, and perhaps were not even sure that this was where Scott and Allison had gone either. Maybe Scott and Allison _had_ actually managed to lose their tail for a while when he told them not to be followed, and it had taken their trackers this long to find their car again. Or maybe Kate was just being cautious and not rushing into an unknown situation that could be a trap, which usually would be a smart plan, he supposed.

Whatever the cause, their plan worked and they were able to escape through the tunnels and out into an alley a good distance away without being spotted.  Scott and Allison may still be confused and struggling to wrap their minds around what was happening, but they didn't argue or hesitate as the four of them all piled into Stiles' jeep and took off.

Stiles' backseat was not exactly empty right now. It was at least half full of the overflow from the trunk, including his duffel and most of the stuff they'd cleared out of the motel room. Scott and Allison, now crammed in there with everything else, shifted around with their knees and elbows bumping as they tried to shove things about into some pattern that allowed them to sit on the actual seats. 

Allison made a gagging sound and pushed something, probably some loose dirty socks or underwear, down onto the floor on Scott's side of the car. "Wow, your car is even more disgusting than usual," she remarked flatly, bracing against the window to keep from getting jostled too badly as Stiles made a turn and she struggled to extricate the can opener that she was very uncomfortably sitting upon.

Stiles smiled a little at the familiarity of the old, running joke. When they were in high school, Stiles had for a while been the only one in their trio with a non-communal car, and sometimes he tossed stuff he meant to throw out in the back seat and then forgot about it for a little while. There was also at least one memorable occasion that involved Allison and Lydia in their prom dresses sharing the back seat with Stiles' Lacrosse equipment, but that was really stupid Jackson's fault for being a complete douche and causing the sequence of events that led to Stiles playing unexpected, emergency chauffer. He certainly _would_ have cleaned the car if he'd know _that_ was going to happen.

"Hey, did you know you've got, like, half a bag of M&M's on the floor back here?" Scott commented as he burrowed into his spot with skill born of practice, moving a bundle of wadded up clothing and nudging the loose scattering of hard candy on the carpet out from under his feet. 

"Huh. That's where that went. Help yourself, if you want," Stiles remarked distractedly, his gaze flicking between the road ahead and his mirrors as he diligently checked for any signs of pursuit.

Once they were back on the highway, he started to relax a little more. He looked over at Derek who had been very quiet this whole time. Not that that was unusual, actually, but Derek also looked a little flushed and winded.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, gaze flicking over Derek in concern.  "Running like that didn't reopen anything, right?  Check the bandages."

"I'm fine."

"Will you just check? Humor me, okay?" Stiles insisted. Derek's wounds were still raw as they mended, but they hadn't bled in a while. Stiles hoped the sudden exertion hadn't set him back.

With a sigh, Derek pulled up his shirt and craned his neck, inspecting the white gauze and medical tape bandages covering the healing wounds to his ribs and shoulder. The bandages were still as crisp and white as when they'd been applied that morning. He pressed lightly against them, a faint grimace crossing his features, but seemed otherwise satisfied by what he found.

"They're fine, Stiles. I'm okay," he promised. "What about you?"

Stiles shrugged. He hurt, but that wasn't new and it wasn't unbearable. Adrenaline seemed to do good things for him. He glanced in the rearview, checking on his friends in the back seat, this time. They had both settled into their seats now, and it seemed that the situation was settling in on them at the same time. Allison was staring out the window with blank eyes, one hand curled tightly against her knee. Scott looked a little more relaxed, but then, maintaining an optimistic outlook while rolling with the punches had always been his friend's strong suit.

Scott caught Stiles looking at him in the mirror. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"Right now, as far away from here as we can get without being spotted," Stiles responded. "We need to get out of the area, get out of sight, and lay low while we figure out our next steps."  It wasn't exactly a stellar example of a plan, but it was just a starting point. He was still working on the rest of the plan beyond that, but now that Scott and Allison were on board... or, well... mostly on board, they had a slew of new options to explore.

Stiles knew he should probably feel worse about getting them caught up in this mess than he did. He was sorry they were in danger, and he would do everything he could to keep anything bad from happening to them, but the truth was that a part of him had known for a while that any potential resolution for their situation was always going to mean eventually having to involve Allison and Scott. The fact that the problem was so deeply tied to Allison's family made it inevitable.

This was not the way he'd have chosen for it to happen, but he was good at rolling with the punches too, and at improvisation under pressure. They were all alive, they were free, and together the four of them stood a much better chance of figuring out some kind of end game that might actually work.

That was when Stiles saw the flashing police lights in his rearview mirror. 


	21. Chapter 21

Stiles swore. He glanced down at his speedometer and then back to the mirror, hoping the police car behind them would change lanes, signaling that it was after someone else. Unfortunately, it remained purposefully glued to his bumper, lights flashing meaningfully.

He felt Derek tense up beside him and there was a moment when he entertained the notion of trying to run. It was stupid, though. There was no way his beat up old jeep was going to get the best of the souped-up police cruiser and running from the cops _never_ ended well. It would only turn what might be a routine traffic stop into something infinitely messier.

Stiles was agitated and he _had_ been unintentionally speeding a little. No more than maybe 10-12 miles over the limit, just like _everyone else_ on the highway was doing, but he knew that if he had been unfortunate enough to draw the losing ticket for a speed trap, it was enough. Cursing his luck, he put on his blinker and pulled over to the shoulder. He heard quick scuffling and clicking sounds from the back seat that told him Allison and Scott were rapidly finding and applying seatbelts. He was already wearing his and shot Derek a look. "Seatbelt!" he hissed as he put the car in park. Derek complied.

"We're just gonna play it cool, okay?" Stiles said, speaking to himself as much as his passengers.  "Cool," he repeated, swallowing and rubbing his palms on his jeans before rolling down the window and fixing the officer with a bright smile. "Hey, what seems to be the problem, officer?"  

The unsmiling patrolman asked him if he was aware of what speed he'd been going. Stiles claimed he wasn't, that he was just keeping pace with the cars around him, and politely handed over his license and registration when it was requested. The officer went back to his cruiser with the documents and Stiles drummed his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel.

"Stiles, the plates," Derek said quietly.

"I know!" Stiles cut him off. "I know. I'm working on it." He was already sweating bullets over the fact that his currently stolen licenses plates were not going to match the information on his registration papers. That was pretty much guaranteed to cause them problems.

Sure enough, after a few minutes the officer returned and asked Stiles to step out of the vehicle. That was never a good sign. Trying to hang onto his mask of normality and not _look_ as guilty or nervous as he felt, Stiles complied with the _request_ , which he knew was in fact an _order_. He got out of the jeep, keeping his hands where the officer could see them. He could practically _feel_ Derek's eyes following him and hoped the other man wouldn't do anything rash.

"Please place your hands on the vehicle, sir," the patrolman instructed, his eyes unreadable behind his large, reflecting sunglasses.

Stiles assumed the position, hands on the roof of his jeep, neck craning around so he could keep the policeman in view.  He knew this was probably just routine procedure, done for the officer's safety. Normally, _cop voice_ wouldn't have had much effect on him, but he was already anxious and this wasn't helping. He felt perspiration trickle down his neck.  

"Hey, I hope nothing's wrong? Pretty sure the insurance is all paid up," Stiles said lightly, trying to prod the officer into telling him the problem so that he could give him the story he'd come up with, without it being a totally obvious lie. He had decided to act like he had no idea about the plates, make it seem like somebody else must have switched them on him and he'd not noticed until now. It wasn't a terribly great defense, but it would at least be difficult to disprove. The problem was that the Stiles knew the officer had a right to take him in and impound the car until the matter was sorted out, unless he could manage to talk him out of it, somehow. If he were very lucky and convincing, _maybe_ he could get away with a summons to appear instead. It was a thin hope, but he had to go for it. Being held up here could prove fatal.

The officer didn't answer; instead he turned his attention to the other passengers. "I need everyone to get exit the vehicle. Please step out slowly and place your hands on the car."

Scott and Allison complied after a moment's hesitation. Derek hesitated longer, but eventually stepped out and did as instructed. What choice did they have, that wouldn't make things worse?  

Stiles glanced around at them as they all stood about the car with hands on the roof, exchanging worried looks. Planted by the doors they'd exited, Scott was beside Stiles, their backs to the road, while Derek and Allison were on the opposite side of the car, across from them. Stiles felt nauseatingly exposed and vulnerable standing here like this on the side of the highway, where anyone could see them.

He wanted to bang his head against the heated metal and canvas for getting hung up on something so _stupid._ They probably _were_ going to take him in, _and_ impound the car, and the only _good_ thing about that scenario was that the driver usually assumed full responsibility in these kinds of situations, so with any luck his passengers could go free and get the hell out of there. One glance at Derek's face, though, told him that that probably wasn't going to happen. _Well, fuck._

A second police car pulled over onto the shoulder behind the first and another patrolman got out. Stiles did not like that the first man felt he had to call for backup, although since he seemed to be riding alone and he had four people to contend with, it wasn't unreasonable.

Stiles wondered a little that the man didn't have a partner. The newly arrived officer didn't either, but these were local cops, judging by their uniforms and cruisers, and he wasn't familiar enough with the way the force worked here to know whether it was weird or normal for them to be traveling alone.

The newly arrived officer patted Stiles and Scott down briefly while the first one took Derek and Allison. The new guy had a such a prominent mustache that Stiles started calling them _'Stashe_ and _Glasses_ in his head.

'Stashe guided Stiles away from the car after he'd been frisked. Stiles baulked when the officer tried to get him into the backseat of his cruiser.

"Okay, wait. Am I under arrest?" he protested, pushing back against the hand on the back of his neck and catching hold of the door frame. He wasn't cuffed, but he knew that as soon as he was shut up in that back seat he would be trapped in there. The doors only opened one way.

"Sir, I need you to get in the car," the officer repeated, but Stiles wasn't having any of it this time.

"Which I _will_ if you tell me _why,_ " Stiles protested. "If I'm not under arrest, then I am not getting in the car, and if I _am_ under arrest, I have a right to know why you're arresting me," he insisted, keeping his tone firm but non-confrontational.

To his surprise, rather than respond, the officer shoved him forward roughly, banging his head on the edge of the door frame and forcing him into the back of the cruiser. Stiles yelped in pain as he fell onto the seat.

"Hey!" Scott stepped away from the Jeep in alarm. Derek let his arms drop and took several steps towards them. Both cops drew their weapons instantly and started yelling for them to freeze.

Stiles struggled up to sit, head spinning. He could only barely make out what was happening through the windshield, around the body of the other squad car that was parked in front of this one. He could see Scott, but Allison and Derek were mostly obscured.

"I'm okay! I'm okay!" he called urgently, heart in his throat, terrified that his friends were about to get themselves shot. "We haven't done anything!  Don't give them a reason!"

There were only two cops and four of them, but the officers were armed and they were at a disadvantage. What were they going to do, go running off on foot? There wasn't anywhere to take cover. If the officers thought they were being threatened and opened fire, it was almost guaranteed that _someone_ was going to take a bullet.  It was pointless to get killed or hospitalized over what could just be some asshole cops and a stupid misunderstanding.

What the hell had he done?  Managed to steal tags belonging to a wanted murder or pedophile or something?  That would be _just_ his luck, wouldn't it? He _hoped_ that was all this was. _Please God, let that be all this was._

Scott froze when the officer drew down on him, arms instinctively going up and out as he regarded the weapon with surprise. Stiles crawled across the seat to look out the passenger side window, trying to see Derek. When he did, he knew by the look on the other man's face that if Derek had been closer to him, things would have gotten really hairy, really fast. He obviously wanted to rush the officers, _badly,_ but he was on the wrong side of the car and too far away from Stiles for it to do any good. He'd never make it. He appeared to realize he'd only succeed in getting himself killed, and reluctantly stood down.

"Look, we're cooperating all right?" Stiles called out, fixing 'Stashe with an angry look as the man took hold of Scott. "But I want it on record you have _not_ read us our rights, or told us what this is about, _and_ I want an attorney." Detaining them without explanation like this was frankly illegal and Stiles knew it, but your average Joe may not have. It was possible these guys were a little too used to having their own way. Stiles had a great respect for the police force for obvious reasons, but he was well aware that not everyone who served was like his dad.  There were dick cops just like there were dicks in every other profession and a little power could be a really bad influence on some people.

This was wrong, though. He felt it in his gut, something about this was wrong. He was filled with the anxious sensation that he should _do_ something, but he had no idea _what._

Scott was pushed down into the seat beside him and the door slammed shut, locking them in. Through the windows, they saw Glasses loading Derek and Allison into the backseat of his cruiser, parked in front of theirs. Both Glasses and 'Stashe remained outside the vehicles.

Stiles and Scott exchanged worried glances. The air was hot inside the closed up cars, but that wasn't the only reason why Stiles felt sweat trickling down his neck and beading on his brow.

"Stiles, what's going on?" Scott asked quietly. "What do they want?"

Stiles shook his head. He was getting a sick, sick feeling in his stomach. "I don't know. I thought this was about having the wrong tags on the car, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe they think we stole the car or..." he worried his lip between his teeth. "Or maybe they're not really cops," he whispered his true fear. "This is wrong, Scott. They didn't mirandize us, they didn't even handcuff us, they didn't even ask any of you who you _were_..." he shook his head.  "If they _are_ cops, they don't care about procedure or breaking the law. Maybe they're just dicks, or maybe they're on the Argents' payroll." He swallowed, hard, fixing Scott with a wide, fearful look. "Which... Scott, trust me, that would be bad. So bad."

Stiles craned his neck, scooting around anxiously in his seat so he could see Derek better. The other cruiser wasn't far away and they had a pretty good view of the back of Derek and Allison's heads. "Maybe we should have run."

"Right, 'cause your Jeep from the 80s would totally outrun this," Scott nodded his chin sarcastically at the modified Crown Victoria cruiser in which they sat. "Kinda think we'd have ended up here anyway, man."

There was a crunch of gravel ahead of them as another vehicle pulled off the road onto the shoulder, in front of where the now empty Jeep sat.

Stiles went stiff, his face suddenly draining of color as a dark haired man and a blonde woman got out of the large, black SUV. Glasses and 'Stashe went to speak with them, and the rapid, panicky sound of Stiles' breathing seemed loud in the quiet confines of the car.  

"Oh fuck, Scott," Stiles whispered, his voice hoarse with a horror Scott had never before heard from his generally fearless friend. "We're _fucked_."

 

* * *

 

In the other cruiser, an uncomfortable, almost oppressive silence reined, tension hanging thick in the still, hot air.

Allison decided this definitely had to rate somewhere amongst the five most awkward situations of her life. She cast wary, sidelong glances at Derek. He was a strong, well-built man. Handsome, for sure, but also kind of intimidating. It was a little unnerving suddenly being alone with him without Scott or Stiles present. She stayed as close to the window as she could and wondered if she was entirely safe right now, given the history they apparently had, which, honestly, she couldn't really wrap her mind around just yet. It all seemed like madness.

She wondered if it were at all possible that this was some very weird, very vivid dream. She knew it wasn't, really, but a lot of things had happened very quickly and none of it truly felt _real_. She was supposed to be at school right now. She was supposed to be finishing out her classes and packing and looking forward to going home and the plans they'd made for the summer. So how _exactly_ had she ended up here, locked in the back of a police cruiser outside a town she'd never heard of with a man she didn't know who had some kind of Inigo Montoya complex against her family?

The answer, naturally, was Stiles. Her friend had a unique ability to randomly introduce chaos into the lives of those around him. He didn't do it on purpose; he simply had no concept of what it was to leave well enough alone. If he did, he would probably still be at school with them ... and Matt Daehler would still be stalking her. Maybe he'd have tried to rape her by now. Maybe he'd have tried to hurt Scott for being in the way. Stiles was reckless and sometimes odd, but his hunches were usually surprisingly accurate and his heart was pure gold.

Stiles hadn't deserved any of what had happened to him this year. It still burned her that Matt had come into their lives because of her. She'd been the target of his obsession, but Stiles was the one whose life had been wrecked. Matt had used Stiles, he'd pretended to care about him and then hurt him, and she had to wonder if this new guy Stiles had fallen in with on the rebound was any better. Was it possible he had manipulated Stiles' vulnerability? How could she know whether any of what he'd told Stiles was true?  She'd totally missed all the warning signs with Matt; she'd failed Stiles and was determined to be a better friend this time around.

She studied Derek quietly, running his name through her mind as if seeking any kind of answering chime of familiarity. It did no good. She'd never heard of him, or the Hales, or any of the things Stiles had talked about. That didn't mean it _wasn't_ true, though. Those awful marks on Stiles' body said that something terrible had happened, and what explanation was there but the one he had given?  Yet, she still found herself struggling with the idea all the same. It was hard to believe these kinds of things about people you _knew._

Seeing Aunt Kate earlier had been a shock... but maybe it hadn't really been her. She'd only seen the blond woman earlier for a few seconds, and at a bad angle, after all. Could it have just been the power of suggestion? Allison hadn't seen Kate in person in at least four or five years, and she hadn't seen her all that often even before they moved.

She had plenty of pleasant memories from when she was a child, but as she approached her teens the relationships in her extended family had started becoming tense. Or maybe they always had been and she had simply become old enough to notice.

She hadn't thought much of it at the time, but she rarely recalled ever being with her grandfather or aunt when her parents were not present, even though she knew Grandpa had offered to take her to the beach house with him numerous times.  She remembered once, when she was thirteen, Aunt Kate had picked her up from school and taken her to the mall. They'd spent all evening there and somehow her phone had gotten turned off without her realizing it. Her Aunt had let her buy all the _grown up_ kind of clothing she wanted and even paid for it. Allison had had a great time, but her father had been very upset about the whole thing afterwards. She'd thought it was because of the shortness of the skirts and tightness of the shirts, or because Kate had encouraged her to get her navel pierced, and maybe part of it had been about those things... but looking back, she realized her father had also seemed almost ... _scared_. Scared that she hadn't come home when expected and he couldn't get hold of her? Or scared that she'd been alone with Kate all that time?  Suddenly, she wondered.

Allison felt like she should say something to break the growing tension in the car, but she had no idea what, and for his part, Derek seemed content to ignore her completely. His attention was focused out the window at the two cops or back towards where Stiles and Scott were locked in the other cruiser.

Her attention was drawn away as a car pulled off the highway just ahead of them, parking on the far side of Stiles' jeep. There were three people in the car. Two got out and the driver remained in the car. This time, there could be no doubt in Allison's mind that it was, indeed, her aunt who got out of the SUV. Perhaps four years was really not such a long time after all, because Kate looked exactly as she remembered her. Her hairstyle was different, but that was about all. 

Allison stared at Kate as she strode over to talk with the police officers, transfixed and vaguely horrified because she just couldn't quite comprehend what this all _meant._

She glanced over at Derek, and the change that had come over him was radical. He went from stony, brooding agitation to an all-out fight or flight reaction in about five seconds. His face had paled, hardening with a mixture of hatred and fear. He started tugging urgently on the door handle even though he seemed to know it was no good. His strong, tanned fingers ran over the seams of the car door, prodding and prying at it viciously as if searching for weaknesses.  

Allison realized with a start that his hands were actually _shaking,_ be it from fear or rage or some combination of the two, she didn't know. There was something so sharp and real, so _visceral_ about Derek's palpable horror over being trapped in here that it made her afraid, too.

Derek gave up on the door as a lost cause, his shoulders slumping in defeat as he turned to cast an agonized gaze out the back window towards the other cruiser less than a yard behind them, so close, and yet so impossibly far out of reach.

_"Oh God,"_ Derek whispered, as if he'd forgotten Allison were even there. "I've killed him. I've killed him too." His voice was broken and raw with the realization, the emotion in it far too deep and ragged for any kind of lie or pretense to exist. His fingers dug into the seat like he wanted to rip it apart with his bare hands and burrow his way out through the back of the car. The way Derek looked at Stiles tugged at Allison's gut. There was such an agony of longing and regret in his eyes. He truly believed they were both about to die; that this was _goodbye_. 

Allison looked out the rear windshield and felt her blood ice over in her veins, because Derek was looking at Stiles, but she was looking at Scott, and suddenly this whole surreal nightmare felt much _too_ real, and she was afraid, truly, _truly_ afraid in a way she had never felt before.

Allison looked back out the front. The two police officers were still speaking with her aunt and the man with her. She didn't know enough about this situation to fully understand what must be happening.  She struggled to remember what Stiles had just told her, but it didn't really help to make sense of their current situation.

Was Kate posing as some kind of an official?  Did she have some story about them being terrorists or whatnot and that was why they'd been detained?  Or were these officers simply corrupt and working with her aunt?  For that matter, was the entire police force on her grandfather's payroll?  Who knew?  Not her. She was suddenly struck by how very, terribly little she knew about _anything_. 

She knew her grandfather was a powerful man, who could control a lot of people a lot more than he should - or so her father had said on several occasions when a dark mood was on him, or when he'd had a beer or three too many. 

She'd thought he just meant because Gerard was an influential politician, but suddenly those words took on a different hue.  So many of the small things that she'd never tallied up before about her life were suddenly starting to form a new and terrible kind of picture.  Little things her father had said or done, his paranoia, his gun collection, the panic room he'd built into the basement and how unreasonable he was on the subject of his family, even making her return Christmas gifts from her Aunt and Grandfather.  She'd always thought he was rather unfair on the subject honestly, but with one small twist of a perspective lens, it all took on a totally different cast. 

What else didn't she know? How far did this abyss opening under her feet spread? How many corners of her life did it taint?  What about the car crash that killed her mother or their subsequent, abrupt move halfway across the country to the sleepy little town of Beacon Hills? Was _anything_ that had happened in her family completely as it seemed? How much of her life had been built on complete _lies_?

With unsteady hands, Allison pulled her cell from her pocket. She slumped down in the seat so as not to be easily seen from outside and dialed her father's cell, praying that he would answer. He did.

"Princess!  To what do I owe the pleasure?" Clearly, her father had seen her name on his caller ID and for a moment the warm tones of his voice washed over her, comforting in their familiarity. Then she looked out the window again and her fear returned threefold.

Chris was still speaking. "I wasn't expecting to hear from you until-"

"Dad, I don't have a lot of time, so please just listen," she cut him off. Her throat felt tight and somehow she'd started crying without noticing, until now, when it made her voice quaver.

"Allison?" she could hear the sudden change, the new edge of concern in his tone, but she pressed on quickly, talking over him. 

"I don't know what's going on anymore, Dad. I don't know who to trust or who to believe.  I don't even know if I can trust you. I hope I can," she said in a quick, choking rush.  "Listen, I'm just outside a city called Redstone with Scott and Stiles. I'm locked in the back of a police cruiser with Derek Hale, and Aunt Kate just pulled up."  There was complete and utter silence from the other end of the line, as if her father had even stopped breathing. "Dad..." her voice cracked again, despite her best efforts. "Dad, Stiles says Aunt Kate's done terrible things, that she hurt him, and he _has_ been hurt, _bad,_ I saw it. I don't know what to do."

There was a sound from the other end of the line unlike anything she'd ever heard from her father before. " _Oh God,"_ it was a stunned, horrified whisper.  "Oh God, sweetheart, I'm sorry. Listen to me, Allison. Listen. I'm coming, all right?  I'm coming for you."  Her father's voice was raw, almost foreign. It was filled with fear and regret and something inside Allison went numb, because she _knew_ then.

_It was true. It was all true._

"Allison, listen, this is important," Chris was still speaking and his voice had changed again, hardening with determination and rage, while still seasoned with that edge of fear.  "I promise I will explain everything later, but right now I need to listen to me and do exactly as I say.  Please, sweetheart, this is so important. You need to make sure your Aunt Kate knows who you are and that you're there. I'm sure she'll recognize you, but do _not_ let _anyone_ take you _anywhere_ unless she's seen you. Scream, shout, make a scene if you have to, just be sure you get her attention, and you tell her ..." his voice choked slightly with an anger that made him almost unrecognizable. "You _tell her_ that if anything happens to you, _anything,_ she _knows_ what I'll do," the words were savage, almost a growl. " _Tell her that._ You'll be all right. They won't hurt you. Just stay with your aunt and wait for me."

"What about Scott and Stiles?  And Derek?" she added, glancing sideways at her companion, who was watching her silently.

The long pause before her father answered told her almost as much as his words. "Honey, I can't... I don't know what I can do for them from here." There was deep, genuine pain in his voice. "I'm coming, but it's going to take me some time to get to you. You need to stay put, stay with your aunt. Do what she says and you'll be safe. If ... if Scott and Stiles have a chance to run, they should take it. Tell them that, if you can, but don't get involved. You need to stay clear, sweetheart. Don't get in the way if things go badly. I... I'm so sorry; I promise I'll be there as soon as I can."

Allison understood then, with chilling certainty, that her father thought Derek, Scott and Stiles would likely all be dead long before he arrived, and he didn't know how to prepare her for that.  "They'll really kill them?" she said quietly. "Just ... just like that?"

Her father didn't answer, which, she knew, _was_ the answer. The direness of their situation filled her with dread and yet, weirdly, it also seemed to center her, as if the prospect of losing everything, of losing _Scott_ threw the world into a strangely sharp and clear kind of relief. There were some things in life that were worth any risk, any cost, and there was a strength that came from discovering what those things were to you.

It wasn't going to happen. She wasn't going to lose them. Not today. Not like this.

Allison snuck a cautious glance outside. Either Kate and the officers were coordinating something, or there was some small difficulty between them, because they were still talking and the man with the mustache looked grumpy. She didn't know what all that was about, but it looked like the conversation was wrapping up. Her father's words had started a desperate plan forming in her mind, and she needed to put it into action while there was time. She was still afraid, but she felt calm now, too. It was a strange, dangerous kind of calm that made her feel oddly powerful.

"Okay," she said quietly into the silence. "Dad? This isn't right. I'm not going to let them hurt Scott, or Stiles, or Derek." She looked over at her companion and then away. "I love you, Dad." She said it like it might mean _goodbye_ and hung up on the worried sound of her father's voice urgently saying her name.

The conversation outside had fully disbanded now. Kate and the men with her were heading their way. Allison turned quickly to Derek, knowing they had only moments left. There was no time to ask him to trust her; no time to try to iron out the years of atrocity that hung between their families, so instead all she said was "Okay, this is the plan..."

 

* * *

 

Derek sat tensely, gazing at Kate as she filled the view through the closed window on Allison's side of the car. Her hired muscle stood close behind her. Allison smiled up at her Aunt with a very good facsimile of stunned surprise on her face. 

"Aunt Kate? No way! What are you doing here?" Allison called, raising her voice to be heard through the window and managing to sound both happy and pleased.  "I'm _so_ glad to see you. Maybe you can help us out? There's like, been some kind of misunderstanding, I think." She gestured towards her current surroundings a bit sheepishly. "We weren't doing anything wrong."

Kate looked duly suspicious, but she smiled and her return greeting was friendly enough. "Hey, kiddo, long time no see.  Your daddy know you're out getting arrested for carjacking?"

Allison shook her head and gave her aunt a shocked, pleading look. " _What?_ That's ridiculous! We didn't jack anything, that's Stiles' car, I promise. He's had it forever. I mean... come on, who would steal _that?_ Seriously?  Look, this is a little... um, see I'm... I'm kind of supposed to be at school right now. But Stiles called and asked us to come down here saying it was really important and the next thing I know he's rushing us into his car and telling us he'll explain as soon as we're safe, whatever that means, and ... and he was kind of sounding a little crazy?  But, I mean, he's been under a lot of stress, lately. There was some stuff that happened at school, and it's not his fault. I don't believe he would have done anything bad, okay? Whatever's going on is a mistake," she spoke quickly, the words pouring out like she was rattled and anxious and seeking help. "But... like ... I mean ... Dad doesn't have to know I'm here, does he? Maybe we can ... talk about it?  I'm sure this is all just a mix up."

Derek had to give the girl credit for being able to pull off the guilty teenager _don't tell dad_ face on command. Granted, he didn't know Allison well, but he thought the performance would have sold him.

"We'll talk about it." Kate grinned and raised her eyebrows in a wry but noncommittal manner. It was difficult to communicate through the closed door, and she'd probably only gotten a third of what Allison had said. She glanced towards one of the police officers and nodded towards the car. "Open the door, she can come with us."

Glasses moved to do as she asked, while 'Stashe walked past them towards his cruiser and got into the driver's seat. Derek heard the engine behind them turn over and felt his stomach tighten, his heart racing in determined anticipation. 

The door opened and Allison struggled awkwardly out of the cruiser. She stood in the doorway, her position holding it open with her body. "Oh my God, finally! That was so scary!" she cried diving enthusiastically for her aunt like she was going to fling herself into her arms in relief.

She was putting it on a little thick, now, but it didn't matter at this point. At the last moment, Allison "tripped" and plowed forward into Kate with ramming force, knocking her backward into the man who was standing directly behind her. They didn't completely fall, but there was a momentary riot of jostling of limbs and fighting for balance.

It was the moment Derek needed. Blood pumping in his ears, he sprang out of the door directly on Allison's heels. He ducked low and ran around the back of the car while Kate and her companion were struggling to right themselves as Allison blatantly flailed against them. Officer Glasses pulled his gun, but he was on the wrong side of the door he'd just opened. The few seconds it took him to step away from the door blocking his shot and clear the jostling tangle of other people gave Derek time to dodge between the two cars. He passed behind the rear bumper of the forward cruiser and the front bumper of the one behind, acting it as if he meant to skim along the side of the second cruiser for cover while making a break for the road.

Officer 'Stashe threw the driver's side door of his cruiser open abruptly as Derek approached, meaning to slam it into him to check his forward progress. Only, Derek wasn't actually trying to make a break for the road. He anticipated the attempted interception and threw himself down in advance of the swinging door, skidding beneath its outer edge like he was sliding into base. He twisted his body, using the force of his momentum to swipe the officer's legs out from under him. Pain flared in Derek's side and his shoulder, but he ignored it.

Caught in the unbalanced moment when he was just in the process of stepping out of his car and trying to rise into a firing position, the impact of Derek's body knocked 'Stashe's off his feet and sent him sprawling. His gun went off into the air and he banged into the side of the car before hitting the ground.

Derek would never have won in a sustained fight against the officer, not in his current condition, but all he needed was to get him out of the way for a second. Rolling up, Derek half clawed, half threw himself into the driver's seat. He gunned the car into reverse, whacking 'Stashe with the still open door as the man tried to get up. 

Bullets pinged into the car in an angry, biting swarm as officer Glasses opened fire on them, joined by Kate who had by now managed to extricate herself and her weapon while her companion hung onto Allison. Allison bucked in the man's arms, kicking her aunt in the back of the shins and spoiling her aim. Bullets peppered the windshield, but fortunately, the sturdy squad car was intentionally armored against such attacks. The bulletproof glass frosted into a spider-web of cracks, but did not shatter.

Derek pulled the car door shut as they picked up speed and momentum. He threw the car out of reverse and back into drive, making it lurch and slalom sideways, the tires spitting gravel. At least one of the bullets must have found their tires because he felt the car list and yaw as the traction ratio changed. Thankfully, whatever kind of special tires these cars used were made to stand up to damage and still be at least semi-operable. If you were going to get shot up trying to escape, a cop car was definitely the right vehicle for the job. Still, they needed distance and they needed it _fast._

Flooring the accelerator and burning rubber, he threw the car into a screeching, hair-raising U-turn across the highway.  Horns blared and several cars swerved wildly to avoid the cruiser.

Stiles was yelling something at him from the backseat, and it took Derek a moment to realize that it was instructions for how to turn on the car's lights and sirens.  Derek slapped them on and they blazed away down the highway, pushing 120 miles an hour with the car's powerful engine roaring, the siren wailing, and everyone obligingly getting out of their way.

Derek was breathing hard. Floating dark patches and flashes of yellow light danced before his vision. Adrenaline was kicking him in the ribs, making his heart rabbit in his chest and his hands tremble on the wheel. His injuries _burned_ and there was something warm and wet trickling down his side. He'd probably reopened the gash across his ribs. Stiles was going to crawl all over him about it, but there'd be time for that later.

He could hardly believe he'd made it at all. He had never felt like a particularly fortunate man, for obvious reasons, but after recent events he was almost tempted to believe that maybe providence was trying to make up for all the shitty luck in his past. Whatever, he'd take it. Now, if he could just manage to get enough oxygen to stay conscious and not black out behind the wheel while driving over a hundred miles an hour, they'd be in good shape.

"Allison!" Scott's voice from the seat behind him sounded both alarmed and desperate. The cage between the seats rattled. "Stiles, we left her!  We left Allison behind! We gotta go back!"

That wasn't going to happen, but Derek couldn't blame the boy for freaking out. He would have felt the same if they'd left Stiles behind in that situation. He kept his eyes on the road and his foot on the gas and shoved back hard on the nagging part of his conscience which told him that if that had been Stiles, he _would_ have gone back. 

"Allison will be fine," he said tersely, the words coming out shorter and more clipped than intended because he was still having trouble breathing and the pain in his side was intense. "This was _her_ plan. She knew she'd have to stay behind if it worked," he explained. "She talked to her father while we were in the car. He said he was coming to get her and that she'd be fine, that her aunt wouldn't hurt her." Derek could only hope he was speaking the truth. It was what Allison had told him. He didn't know if it would prove true. He hoped so, but either way, there was no going back now.

Derek heard Stiles' voice from the backseat, low and earnest as he sought to comfort and encourage his friend. "She's family to them, Scott. That's a big thing in her favor, and anyway Mr. Argent wouldn't let _anything_ happen to her. If he told her she'd be okay, then she will be," he reasoned. There was a thread of anxious, worried strain in Stiles' voice, despite the optimism, and Derek thought maybe he was trying to assure himself as much as Scott.

Derek wondered how much Stiles would hate him if it turned out they'd just gotten Allison killed. He wondered how much he'd hate himself. He hoped he wouldn't have to find out.

"Okay," Scott murmured reluctantly, obviously still extremely worried but clinging onto the same hope that they all were, since he had no other choice.  "Okay."  His voice was soft, breathless.  There was faint, repeated, wheezing sound. "Stiles..." the word was oddly strangled.

"Oh shit," Stiles murmured, voice worried and soothing at the same time. "Shh, shh, Scott, it's okay." There was a rustling of clothing, as if Stiles were going through his friend's pockets.  "Scott, where is it? Where's your inhaler?"

"In... my jacket... in ... Allison's... car," Scott panted, the pained wheezing of his struggle for oxygen growing more apparent.

"Shit, Scott! Stop leaving it places!" Stiles remonstrated with a sharpness that was clearly born from distress.  "We're not in my jeep anymore; I don't have a spare, _here_!"

 "S'okay," Scott murmured bravely. "Don't ... need it. I'll be okay ... in a minute."

"Yeah, okay, okay," Stiles agreed, trying to be encouraging although he sounded a little dubious. "Just... lean back. Relax, try to breathe slow."

Scott made a soft choking sound that may have been an attempt at a snort.  "Yeah, sure..." he panted.  "Because running away ... in a stolen cop car ... full of bullet holes ... is _so_ relaxing."

 

* * *

 

Kate slammed Allison none too gently against the side of the SUV as her companion opened the back door for them. Behind them, Allison heard tires crunching on gravel. A siren kicked on as the two police officers took off in the remaining squad car in pursuit of the fugitives.

She'd done everything she could. She desperately hoped that Scott and Stiles had enough of a lead and that they would somehow figure out a way to lose their pursuers. She'd seen those two pull some truly crazy stunts together in the past and get away with it. She only hoped they'd manage the same now.

Kate pulled her away from the car and manhandled her towards the back seat. Allison fought her and the older woman cuffed her sharply across the face, knocking Allison to the ground.

Head ringing, Allison stumbled unsteadily as she was dragged her back to her feet.

"You treacherous little bitch," Kate accused, her eyes dark and angry, like she'd already been having a really shitty day and Allison had just gotten on her very last nerve.

Allison licked her bloodied lip and grinned defiantly. "Guess that runs in the family, _Auntie_."  She spit blood at Kate, her heart pounding with anger, adrenaline and fear.

Kate's eyes flickered darkly, but an odd, almost approving smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Well, look who grew up to have a backbone. Here I thought your milksop of a father had totally ruined you." The older woman leaned unexpectedly close, tilting Allison's chin up with her fingers. "I always thought there was a little of the devil in you. Too bad he never let me train you up proper, like we were trained."

Allison just glared at her, despite the way her stomach was clenching and unclenching in sickening waves. "Why are you doing this?" she demanded.

Kate shoved her into the back seat. "You wouldn't understand, kid. You just wouldn't understand." 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! Sorry it took so hideously, unexpectedly long to get this next chapter done! Hopefully the next one won't be so long in coming. Thank you all for your patience!

Derek cut the siren and lights and guided the battered cruiser off onto a curving exit ramp. As useful as the vehicle had been to their escape it was far too conspicuous and easy to track. They needed to ditch it as soon as possible. Towards that end he took a confusing, random series of turns onto increasingly rural and deserted roads with no goal other than getting them as lost and as far away from the chance of anyone seeing them as possible.

The road became gravel paved and wilderness surrounded them in the form of rolling, rocky hills and scrubby patches of pine woods. They'd not seen another car for a good long while, but the anxious feeling didn't leave him. He lifted his shirt a little as he drove, checking the bandage under his arm. It was saturated red, but the bleeding seemed to have tapered off again on its own and no new blood was trickling free. His shoulder throbbed painfully, but that bandage was still clean.

"Derek?" Stiles' voice from the back was concerned and quiet. Derek glanced in the rearview mirror to see that Stiles was leaning forward, fingers curled around the grated mesh that separated the seats, his face pressed anxiously against the barrier as he tried to get a look at the bandages.

"It's all right, it's stopped bleeding," he assured. "I'm okay, Stiles, honest," he added when the anxious look did not lift from the whisky eyes fixed on him.

"Okay, but you tell me if it starts getting bad again, all right? _Before_ you pass out, this time. I am _not_ keen on patching you up again while you pull another Sleeping Beauty, Dude," he muttered. "Once was _so_ much more than enough."

Derek smiled a little, despite himself. It was so strange how Stiles could inspire that in him, no matter how dire their circumstances. "Duly noted," he agreed.  "And you're welcome."

Stiles grinned at him through the mesh. "Right, well, that fact that you're awesome goes without saying, yeah?"

Derek slowed the car, his attention drawn back to the road as they approached an unmarked railroad crossing. A long freight train was lumbering by ahead of them, making it impossible to keep moving forward until it had passed.

Reluctantly, Derek pulled to a halt by the crossing to wait it out. Rusting, graffiti-decked freight cars passed by in a steady stream, but the train was long and it was crawling along at such an unhurried pace that Derek thought if it went any slower it would be moving _backwards._

Too antsy to be able to bear waiting any longer, Derek started making a 3 point turn, meaning to backtrack in search of a way around the train. Looking in the rear mirror as he backed up, he saw Scott and Stiles look suddenly at one another as if sharing an unspoken mental _eureka_ moment. " _Duuude,"_ they both said at the same time.

"Derek, Derek! Quick, go back to that stand of trees back there!" Stiles said, pressing forward against the separation between them again, almost bouncing in his urgency.

"Pull in as deep as you can," Scott added as he kneeled on the seat and looked out the rear window towards the trees in question. "So you can't-"

"-see the car from the road," Stiles finished for him.

Derek wasn't sure whether the way they were finishing one another's thoughts was adorable or annoying as heck, but he gave into their urgency and did as suggested without wasting time on questions.

He ditched the cruiser as far into the trees as it would go. He opened the back door, releasing the two teens within, and Scott and Stiles were both out and off like a bolt, running quickly back down the road towards the train. Frowning in confusion, Derek took off after them.

When he saw the two boys change course, paralleling the train and sprinting madly along beside the tracks, he finally understood their intention. Breathing harshly as he kept pace behind them, he shook his head incredulously. "Are we seriously going to jump this train?!"

"You know you wanna!" Stiles shot back over his shoulder almost gleefully.

"It's not that hard!" Scott offered helpfully, although his breathing sounded even more labored than Derek's felt.  "Stiles and I used to do it all the time when we were kids."

"Pretendin' we were running from the bad guys..." Stiles added wryly as he sized up the train rumbling by beside them with a practiced, searching eye. "The trick is to make sure you're somewhere in the middle of the train, where there's not an engine close enough for them to see you. Then you just jump and grab!"

He demonstrated by nimbly jumping up and catching hold of the railing running along the perimeter of the passing train car. Swinging his body at an angle, he pressed the soles of his shoes against the side of the train car for purchase as he clung on. 

"That way you don't get dragged!" Scott finished, duplicating the procedure seconds later on the same stretch of rail. 

Derek eyed the train uncertainly, his pumping legs not fast enough to keep it from steadily pulling further and further away from him. Although it seemed to have only been creeping by before, now that he was actually going to try to _jump_ the thing, it seems like maybe it was going a bit faster than he'd thought.

"Come on, Derek, come on!" Stiles urged.

_Well, what the hell? He'd certainly done crazier things._ Derek went for it. He jumped, catching hold of the rungs of the ladder at the very end of the car as it whooshed past. His injuries clamored at him in protest and he didn't quite get his feet up fast enough. He very nearly did end up getting dragged, but managed to haul himself up with effort until he could get his feet safely on the ladder. Pulse thundering in his ears, he hugged the metal rungs, trying to catch his breath and wait out the burning pain yammering at him from his strained injuries.

Further down the car, Stiles and Scott whooped and cheered for him like he'd just batted in a home run and he couldn't help the small, incredulous, crazy smile that tugged at his lips. Those two behaved like such overgrown children together, it was ridiculous, but he found he couldn't really mind.

These were not conveniently open-sided freight cars like one might find in an old western movie. These cars were closed and locked up tight to protect whatever it was they transported, but there were steps and platforms on the end of each car. One such platform was directly on Derek's right. The platform at the end of this particular car was little more than a narrow strip of metal that gave access to the swaying hitch between the cars, but the car immediately behind them was a different story. That car had a slightly triangular shape with the narrow end at the bottom, creating a relatively broad expanse of platform sheltered by the overhang and the metal stanchions that formed the support framework of the car on either side.

The space wasn't huge, but Derek judged that it would be a much less exposed position than the one he had currently.

Stiles and Scott seemed to have the same idea. Derek saw them working their back way towards him, along the side of the car, as quick and agile as monkeys. Stiles caught his eye and nodded towards the gap between the train cars beside Derek.

Derek had asked too much of his healing body in too short a time. He needed to sit somewhere and give himself a chance to recover. Feeling stiff and clumsy, he edged off the ladder, clambered around the side of the car and made the short hop to the other car.  Exhaling in relief as he settled down onto the narrow ledge, he pushed back as far into the shadow of the inverted pyramid as he could manage, one knee pulled up to his chest, the other braced against nearest joist for stability as the car swayed along.  Leaning against the warm metal behind him, he breathed carefully and waited for the throbbing to die down, trying to keep the pain off his face as Scott and Stiles appeared around the edge of the car. 

Scott was in position to jump the gap first. He made it easily, but there was something strained and a little urgent about his motions as he sank down and pushed himself into the shadow of the car beside Derek. Stiles came next, landing sure-footed on Scott's other side and quickly claiming his own little spot of the narrow ledge the three of them were now sharing.

The shape of the car and its close proximity to the box-shaped one to which it was coupled meant that they were fairly protected from easy view unless you were paying attention and got a direct sideways view of this section of the train. They were not nearly hidden enough to go without being spotted if they passed through any heavily populated areas, but out here amid the rolling, empty countryside, they were relatively safe for the moment.

Stiles leaned forward so he could see Derek around Scott. His gaze was searching, so Derek carefully let no more of his pain and exhaustion show than he could help.

"You two are crazy, you know that right?" Derek told him sarcastically.

 Stiles looked a little relieved, as if Derek grumping at him meant he must be okay. He favored Derek with a grease smudged, devil-may-care smile. "Pot and kettle Mr. _Let Me Storm the Enemy Stronghold with a Taser and Night Vision Goggles_ ," he retorted. "Come on, this is _genius._ If Kate and her goons figure out which exit we took, they'll look at all the roads in the area, but we're side-stepping the roads all together."

"Until they find the cruiser abandoned in the middle of nowhere near a set of train tracks," Derek pointed out, although he had to admit that Stiles was right, it was a good temporary evasion.

Stiles scowled at him. "Well _yeah_ , but by then we'll be long gone and even if they figure out what train we caught, they won't have any idea where we hopped off," he pointed out. "Positive thinking, Derek. Positive thinking."

Stiles let out a long, slow breath and pressed a hand lightly against his side, as if he were in pain. He probably was. Their little adventure couldn't have done any good for his healing injuries either.

"Are you all right?" Derek asked quietly.

Stiles nodded. "Yeah, you?"

"As okay as you are," Derek responded.

Stiles quirked a smile. "Point taken. How about you, Scotty?"

They both turned their attention expectantly on the boy sitting between them, but one good look made it clear that Scott was actually not at all okay.

He sat quietly hunched over with his legs drawn up, his forearms resting on his knees and his dark head hanging as he discretely, but desperately struggled for air he couldn't seem to find.

Stiles swore and immediately scooted closer, placing a gentle, anxious hand on Scott's heaving shoulder. "He's got asthma," he explained somewhat unnecessarily, looking across at Derek with eyes full of worry. "But it hasn't been this bad in a while. Hey, Scotty, hey..."

Derek didn't need the explanation to know that whatever issues Scott had been having earlier had been exacerbated by their sudden exertion. The young man was having a full blown attack, and they had nothing to give him to ease it.

"M'kay," Scott croaked around rapid, urgent little gasps, even though he obviously wasn't. The lack of oxygen was clearly frightening, but he also looked more than a little chagrinned and embarrassed. "Sorry," he murmured. "So stupid."

Derek knew then that people in Scott's past had mocked him for his condition, had taught him to be ashamed of it like a weakness. Not Stiles, however, given the look that flashed through the other boy's eyes at the apology.

"Oh stop," Stiles retorted, rolling his eyes and shifting so that he could massage Scott's chest, rubbing his thumb in circles against the base of his sternum. "Like it's your fault, or you have any control over it. Just chill and breathe, man. It'll pass soon. Long, slow breaths, right? Come on, Scott, you breathe, I'll count," he encouraged, sounding calm and confident now.  

Derek watched as Stiles helped Scott through some breathing exercise that seemed familiar to them both.  Stiles lifted Scott's arm and started digging his fingers into a spot on his ribs just below his armpit. Scott winced as if that hurt, but let him do it.

"Derek?" Stiles looked over at him and Derek could see the worry beneath the calm assurance Stiles was wearing for his friend's sake. Stiles reached over and lifted Scott's other arm, gesturing for Derek to take it. "Press in here," Stiles instructed, showing Derek a spot on the inside of Scott's elbow. "They're pressure points, it helps, sometimes. I've done a lot of research on asthma," he explained briefly as he returned to rubbing under Scott's armpit and counting for him as he fought to breathe.

Derek didn't exactly see how rubbing someone's arm was supposed to help them breathe, but it was certainly better than doing nothing, so he took Scott's arm and did as Stiles instructed. Stiles generally seemed to be of the opinion that all obstacles could eventually be overcome if he just investigated and planned hard enough. It therefore came as no surprise to Derek to learn that Stiles had researched all manner of different treatments for a condition that his best friend had apparently had his whole life. However, it _did_ give him a new inkling about why Stiles seemed to find looking after people he cared about a natural occurrence to be taken in stride.

Derek rubbed circles into the crook of Scott's arm and found himself silently urging the other boy to be okay.

Stiles was smiling at Scott, encouraging and joking with him, helping him relax past the fear that would only make his bronchial spasms worse. Scott smiled back despite his struggle, his expression totally trusting and open. Whatever harassment his condition had probably caused him over the years, he wasn't afraid to be vulnerable with Stiles, he wasn't afraid or ashamed of needing him or letting him help. There was a natural, unconscious kind of closeness between them, like a deep, unspoken thread of trust that Derek sort of envied. Not in a jealous way, but in a bittersweet kind of way, because it reminded him of Laura.

He'd spent so many years torturing himself with the memory of her death that he'd started to forget the good times before - how much he'd loved her, and how close they had been. He'd let the Argents and his own guilt twist her memory into something ugly and painful inside him until the warmth of what they had shared was lost to him, but watching Stiles with Scott brought it back like a wave. The memories hurt, but it was a sweet, precious kind of pain, as if he were claiming back some part of his heart he hadn't realized had been taken away, and he knew he wasn't going to make the mistake of letting go of it again. Laura would have wanted him to remember the good and not just the bad.

The countryside slipped past around them, vast, unpopulated and unremarkable. Derek kept a wary half-eye on their surroundings, freeing Stiles to keep his whole attention on his friend. Derek patiently continued to rub Scott's arm, pleased and relieved when the boy's breathing gradually began to ease. It was only then that he noticed Scott had something clutched in his other hand. He couldn't get a good look at it from this angle, but it looked like a small grey stone. Whatever it was, Scott was turning it over and over in his hand, rubbing it between his fingers as he fought to maintain the slow, steady rhythm of breathing he had finally achieved.

After a few more minutes, Scott carefully straightened up a little, reclaiming his arm from Derek and slipping the stone or whatever it was into his jeans pocket. He was still breathing carefully, but seemed much improved and Stiles finally gave up rubbing and prodding at him.

Scott favored his friend with a small, grateful smile and then, to Derek's surprise, turned that expression on him with the same warmth. "Hey, uh... thanks, man," Scott said, his expression sheepish but his gratitude genuine. "Sorry to, like, spaz out on you first thing when we've only just met. Thanks for helping get us out of that mess back there, that was really something else," he said, as if completely discounting the fact that Derek was the reason they'd been _in_ that mess to begin with and that his life had just been violently upended by this man he'd known for less than the space of a few hours.

Derek raised his eyebrows, unsure how to respond.

"Derek is good at the dramatic saves," Stiles said proudly. "I think he's trying to impress me," he added in a conspiratorial stage whisper to Scott while giving Derek a wink.

"Well _I'm_ impressed _,_ " Scott said with a broad, if weary smile that made his dark eyes twinkle.  

"But you can't have him," Stiles replied lightly, obviously joking. "Finders keepers."

Derek coughed as if feeling the need to remind them that he was sitting right there.

Scott elbowed Stiles lightly. "He's a person, Stiles, not an ultra rare trading card," he teased back.

"MMm, and don't I know it," Stiles replied with a meaningfully contented look. "I might fight you about the rare part though, I mean, come on... heroic _and_ unbelievably hot? Dude. How often does that actually happen in real life?  You _really_ need to see his abs. Works of art, man, works of art."  

Derek looked away, his ears flushing pink and a funny warmth unfolding in his chest as he stoically watched the landscape slide by. It was embarrassing to have Stiles talk about him like that, but at the same point there was something oddly sweet about his honest enthusiasm. Derek wasn't used to being treated like that. He wasn't used to hearing people talk about him and having it be anything good.

"Oh my God, Stiles," Scott rolled his eyes at his friend, shooting a sideways glance at Derek. "Sorry," he said to Derek, favoring him with a genuinely apologetic smile, as if afraid they'd made him uncomfortable. "He's not making fun, he means it as a compliment," he added earnestly. The assurance was unnecessary, but the spark of protective concern in Scott's eyes told Derek that the young man was used to other people misreading his friend's manner of expressing himself.

Derek supposed that Stiles did tend to say things without appearing to comprehend how others might take them, but he'd gotten used to that by now. "I know," he said simply, shooting Stiles an amused little smile that melted the squint-eyed scowl the young man was directing at Scott for feeling like he needed to intercede. 

Stiles stuck his tongue out at Scott, but he clearly wasn't serious about it.  Scott made as if to poke it back in with his finger and Stiles pulled away quickly, compressing his neck like a turtle to stay out of reach. Scott poked his nose instead, and kept poking it like it was some kind of running joke

"Cut it out," Stiles protested, laughter bubbling at the edge of his voice as he tried to twist his head away in the narrow space to little avail. "Derek! Tell Scott to stop poking me," he whined around his mirth, intentionally being childish as he batted at Scott's hands with his own.

Derek actually chuckled despite himself. In a situation as dire as theirs, he probably shouldn't find anything amusing, but he couldn't help it. They were all so keyed up and everything was so grim, the out of place inanity was like a pressure release valve that he hadn't realized he needed. "Scott, stop poking Stiles," he intoned dutifully, using an _older sibling_ voice that would have made Laura proud.

Scott obeyed, obviously already worn out from the slight exertion and knowing better than to push himself just now. "Cheater. Getting your boyfriend to protect you," he ribbed Stiles.

Derek felt a strange kick behind his ribs. Scott had probably applied the label to him in jest, because of Stiles' earlier comments, but hearing someone casually refer to them like that did something to him that he couldn't explain. For a few fleeting moments, it was almost like he belonged somewhere. It was probably just his over stressed nerves messing with him, but it was ... it was kind of nice.

The train entered a steady, curving bend as it circumvented along the base of a steep hill and they were all obliged to hold on to keep from sliding too far towards the edge of their narrow perch. The slant pitched them all towards Derek and although Scott and Stiles hurried to grab on as best they could, they were all three of them pushed sideways into one another. It was a slow, inexorable pressure rather than a sudden or jarring impact, however, and they weren't in any serious danger from it. Derek gripped the thick stanchion next to him with one hand, his other darting out to grab a fistful of Stiles' shirt, just in case, his arm creating a protective bar across Scott as well.

Once they got used to the centrifugal force of the long, drawn out curve, they managed to shift apart again and re-settle themselves a little more securely.

Derek caught sight of Stiles rubbing at his sore chest with a wince. He was undoubtedly in pain from his healing injuries, but he seemed to otherwise still be doing okay.

Scott had gone somewhat pensive now as they settled in for the ride. His gaze was distant, an edge of either sorrow or anxiety taking the shine out of his dark eyes and telling Derek that he was probably worrying about his girlfriend.

Guilt slithered beneath Derek's skin and he tried stubbornly to ignore it. Allison had said she would be okay. He wasn't sure he believed that, but what else could he have done? If you'd told him yesterday that he'd be spending _any_ concern on an _Argent,_ he would have laughed in your face. Lately his life seemed like one never-ending series of sudden drops and drastic turns. It actually made him a little angry that he was feeling drawn to worry about this young woman he'd known for all of five minutes, who belonged to a family he had every right to bitterly hate, but then he looked at Stiles and saw the quiet anxiety in Scott's expression, and the frustration melted back into a dull, guilty ache.

He cleared his throat. "Back in the cruiser, Allison said that if we could get away, we should get somewhere safe and then call her father. She said Scott would have his number. I think that's a terrible idea," he added. It was such a suspicious and unattractive sounding option that he actually hadn't been sure he was even going to relate the suggestion to his companions at all. He knew speaking up was the right thing to do, though. He understood why Stiles had not wanted to tell him that the Argent girl might be at their meeting earlier, but if they were going to survive, they couldn't be at cross purposes. He and Stiles had already gone through too much pain from miscommunication. It was bad enough that he might have just caused the death of one of Stiles' closest friends, he wasn't going to start lying to him too.

"No... no, it could be a good idea," Stiles countered, looking thoughtful.

"He might know something about Allison," Scott put in hopefully, pulling his phone out of his pocket as if he meant to make the call immediately.

Derek's stomach lurched. He snatched the phone away, holding it tightly in his fist and feeling suddenly very tempted to toss it over the side of the train. His heart thundered in his ears.

_Everything was darkness, blood and fear. He was flat on his back, the sad-eyed man over him silhouetted in moonlight that glinted harshly off the barrel of the gun pointed directly at his face._

"Hey!" Scott protested, looking initially more startled than angry. He reached for the phone, but Derek pulled it away with a warning scowl that was almost a growl. The older man held it out of reach, dangerously close to dropping it onto the tracks below. Scott's eyes darkened, his own temper finally starting to rise.

Stiles interposed before the situation could degrade. "Scott... just hang a min, okay? We need to talk, there's a lot of shit I didn't have time to tell you earlier," he said, gripping his friend's shoulder earnestly before turning his gaze on Derek. He leaned around Scott and held out his hand, palm up. "Derek, give me the phone, okay?" he asked quietly.  His gaze flickered from Derek, to the phone in his hand, to the tracks below and back again, as if accurately reading what was on the man's mind.

Derek just looked at him for a long moment, feeling almost dizzy as his breath came in short, rapid pulses and fear tried to turn to anger in his breast. He blinked slowly, clenching his jaw and attempting to get a handle on himself before he did something stupid and reactionary like he usually did. He _wasn't_ going to just blow up at Stiles for no good reason. Not again. Not this time. Stiles didn't deserve that. _What the hell was wrong with him?_

"Derek, please," Stiles said even more quietly, something strangely gentle in his steady brown eyes. "It's okay. Nobody's going to call anybody right this minute, I promise, but we need to talk about this and make a decision together. That's why you mentioned it, right?" he reasoned.

Stiles was right, and Derek didn't even know why he was acting like this. It was just that when he'd seen Scott with the phone and thought he was about to call _Chris fucking Argent_ right that second, everything inside him had gone a little weird for a moment.

Forcing himself to move, Derek reached out and placed the phone into Stiles' outstretched hand, his own lingering hesitantly atop it. "It's _dangerous,_ Stiles," he murmured, almost desperately. "We can't trust him." _I can't make the same mistake twice. I can't lose you to them too._

Stiles' fingers brushed Derek's reassuringly as he took the phone, holding his gaze and not pulling away immediately. "I know," he assured softly, his eyes giving the words deeper meaning. "I get it, Derek. I do."

Derek found himself recalling the way Stiles had all but frozen up in the train station when Kate had arrived, and he realized that Stiles _did_ know. His fingers ghosted across the inside of Stiles' bruised wrist and then he finally let his hands fall back to his lap, trustingly relinquishing the phone.

Stiles favored him with an intensely tender and slightly awed little smile as he settled back and stopped leaning across Scott. Derek knew he probably didn't deserve to be looked at that way, but it meant the world to him anyway. He felt himself starting to relax a little, his pulse beginning to level out.

"Sorry," Scott apologized. The gaze he directed at Derek was concerned and more than a little confused, but otherwise free of any tension or pique. Apparently, grudges weren't his thing. "I didn't mean we had to do it _right now_ , I mean, not if we need to talk first." He added a little hesitantly, glancing between his two companions questioningly. He was obviously still confused what all the fuss was about, but seemed to realize that he'd unintentionally hit a nerve.

Derek knew he should really be the one offering an apology, but he accepted Scott's instead.

"First things first," Stiles said, busily prying the back off the phone in his lap and divesting it of its battery. "Gotta make sure there's no way for them to trace us while we're on the move," he said absently, for Scott's benefit, since Derek was already well aware of Stiles' strictly anti-battery policies.

Once the phone was in pieces, he entrusted it back to Scott, briefly shooting Derek a look that seemed to be asking for his trust.

Derek did not object. Stiles already had his trust, and if he was insisting that it could be safely extended to include Scott, then Derek would go with him on that until he had a reason to do otherwise.  

"Okay, so let's look at the pros and cons here," Stiles said, getting straight down to business. "Cons: we know that Mr. Argent was an active part of at least some of the bad shit that went down with Derek's family. We don't know how involved he still is or isn't in their business and whose side he'll be on," Stiles ticked the points off on his fingers.  "If he's on _their_ side, then contacting him and trusting anything he says or does is about as dangerous as contacting Kate." Stiles swallowed, his tongue unintentionally darting out to lick his lips anxiously at the mention of her name. "Which is, really, really dangerous," he added parenthetically, for Scott's benefit. "Trust me. You do not want to spend any quality time with her. Bad, bad, bad." He shuddered theatrically and smiled like it was a joke, but he had to tuck his hands between his knees and there was no amusement in his eyes.

Derek didn't know Scott well enough to really read him, but something in the slight shift of the teen's body language made him suspect that Scott had read Stiles' tells as clearly as he had.

"Okay, I can see that," Scott said slowly, reaching out and giving Stiles' arm a little squeeze. "But Stiles... we've known Mr. Argent for years. He's like, your dad's best friend. Do you really think he'd try to have us _killed_ or something?"

Stiles shrugged uncertainly. "A couple weeks ago, I would have said hell no," he agreed. "But a couple weeks ago I didn't know that he was like, all mobbed up either."

"Point taken," Scott agreed with an unhappy frown. He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, blowing out a slow breath. "I don't know, man. This is all just... it's crazy."

"Yup," Stiles agreed distractedly. "Total crazy train. Ha, pun intended after the fact," he added wryly, glancing about at the literal train on which they rode. "So, anyway, those are the cons. Did I miss any, Derek?" he asked, unsubtly trying to coax the silent man into the conversation.

Derek shrugged laconically, resisting the attempt. Stiles shot him a squint-eyed look, but continued anyway.

"Okay, so on the pro side, as far as we can tell, Mr. Argent has been on the outs with his family since before he and Allison moved to Beacon Hills. He's actively tried to keep Allison away from them and in the dark about everything, so we can probably pretty safely say that at the very least, he has big issues with his family that could work in our favor. If he comes down on our side, he'd be a pretty useful ally, since he knows where all the Argent skeletons are buried."

"Don't forget that he probably helped put a lot of them there," Derek pointed out. "He'll go down with the rest of them if the tower topples. It's in his best interests to _not_ let that happen."

"True," Stiles nodded thoughtfully. "But now there's Allison in the mix too. You can bet _she'll_ be on our side, and she can usually talk her dad into pretty much anything."

"Stiles, we're not talking about a weekend trip or a new pair of shoes here," Derek's tone was dark with distrust. "That man is not going to risk his life and his freedom to do anything for _us._ "

Stiles chewed his lip, brows furrowed. "Maybe not... but I'm pretty sure he'd do all that and more for Allison. If _she's_ in danger..."

"If she's in danger, that just gives them something to hold over him to make sure he toes their line." Derek's voice was flat. "It's too dangerous, Stiles. We _cannot_ trust him."  

"No," Stiles agreed. "We can't _trust_ him, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't _contact_ him. No, no, hear me out," he said quickly when Derek looked at him askance. "We can be careful about it. We can make sure it's not easily traceable, we can make sure we can split right after the call and disappear. But I think we need to talk to him, Derek. It's a risk, but we have to try. What else are we going to do? If we're ever going to get out from under this, we have to have a plan."

"How about we get as far away from here as we can, and make sure they don't find us and torture us to death slowly?" Derek suggested flatly. 

Stiles' jaw twitched and Derek instantly regretted his word choice.

"Running and hiding is not a _plan_ , it's a _reaction_. A good one for staying alive, so yeah, we'll do that too, but Derek... we can't run forever. We need to find a way to fix this. Maybe that means taking a few calculated risks along the way as we try to line up some pieces and figure things out."

Derek had to agree with Stiles' logic. He didn't have to like it. He frowned, consternated that he couldn't come up with any other rational objections to raise.

"We just talk to him, that's all," Stiles wheedled. "Not now. Later, when we're somewhere farther away, somewhere safer where we can disappear quickly. We just talk to him and see what he says. At the very least, we could maybe end up with some useful information."

"Maybe he'll know something about Allison by then," Scott said very, very quietly, the depth of the soft anguish in his voice drawing both sets of eyes to him. "Like... where she is and if she's all right." He fixed an earnest, patently desperate gaze first on Stiles, and then on Derek. "I have to know if she's okay. I have to." He was almost pleading, but his eyes held a firm, soul deep determination that said there was nothing in heaven or hell that would prevent him from seeking those answers at any cost, alone if he had to.

Derek sighed and tipped his head back against the rusting, sun-heated metal plating behind him, feeling suddenly very tired. "Yeah, okay," he muttered. "I guess it would be okay to at least call, _if_ we're careful about it."

Stiles beamed. He clapped his hands together decidedly and Derek could almost see the wheels turning in his head. "Okay then!  So here's what I'm thinking we look for, when we get somewhere habitable..."

* * *

 

Derek was good at identifying vacant, usable spaces. He'd spent enough of his life squatting in such places, he ought to be. Stiles wanted to be near the bus station and they needed somewhere semi-private where they could hold a speaker-phone conversation and not be overheard. Derek identified an empty, unused loft space that was being renovated just up the street from the bus station. Within a matter of minutes he had the three of them inside, standing amid stacks of wallboard and fluttering plastic drop cloths.  

Fresh construction dust said this was an active site, but being as it was almost midnight, it was extremely unlikely that any workmen were going to be around again for another few hours at least. They would be long gone by then.

Stiles was of the opinion that using a payphone left them too exposed, plus there would be no way for all three of them to be in on the conversation. Scott's cell was the best choice.

They were near the bus station so that in case anyone traced down the origin of the call, their pursuers would have cause to conjecture that, having recently lost the car they had been using, they might be intending to take one of the buses. Stiles had gotten hold of a schedule. In addition to the normal, local routes, there were three long distance greyhound busses departing near dawn tomorrow morning. With any luck, anyone coming after them would think those to be strong leads and pursue off in those directions, while in reality the three of them were going to hitch a ride out of town in the back of an empty semi-trailer that they'd discovered parked at a truck stop a few blocks down.  The lock on the trailer was broken and the driver had just been entering the all night diner when they left. It was a fortuitous find to which Stiles had quickly adjusted his plans, but it meant that they had to do this swiftly if they wanted to get back and stow away before the driver returned.

Their breathing seemed loud in the hushed, empty space as the three of them huddled together, bathed in the muted light from Scott's cell phone. He pulled up Chris Argent's cell phone number from his contact's list, or _Alison's Dad_ as it was actually labeled. At Stiles' instruction, he didn't call from his contact list, but instead memorized the number and punched it into the keypad so that he could prepend the necessary digits to block caller ID. If Mr. Argent wasn't alone, they didn't need to advertise who was calling. Scott hit talk and put the call on speakerphone.

Any doubt about whether they'd be able to get hold of the older man at such a late hour was put to rest when the call was answered on the second ring.

"Hello?" Chris Argent's voice sounded tense and guarded, like he didn't expect to hear anything good on a call from a blocked number at this hour.  

"Um, hey, Mr. Argent," Scott said, as if suddenly realizing he had no idea what to say.

"Scott?! Where are you? No, wait, don't tell me," Chris corrected himself quickly, even as Derek and Stiles emphatically shook their heads at Scott. "Are you somewhere safe?"

"For the moment, I guess. What about Allison? Do you know what happened? Is she okay?" Scott asked in a concerned rush.

"For the moment," there was a slightly clipped note to Chris' dry, succinct response. "I'm still on the road, but I have been given assurances that she's all right." 

"You mean you talked to Kate," Derek said flatly.

There was a pause on the other side of the call. "Derek Hale?" Chris asked after a moment, the question sounding more like a deduction than recognition. "I assume Stiles is there too," he said after another long moment of silence in which Derek did not respond to his inquiry. "Listen, I'm sure you have a lot of questions and so do I, but we can't stay on the phone too long; it isn't safe. Yes, I spoke with Kate. She said Allison's all right and I'm going to meet them both right now."

"Where? Where did they take her?" Scott cut in.

" _That_ is _not_ something you need to know," Chris said firmly, his words quick and his tone all business. "The last place you want to be is anywhere near us. I will take care of Allison. You boys are in very deep waters right now, and you need to be very careful."

"Oh _wow,_ you _think?!"_ Stiles scoffed incredulously at the massive understatement.

Chris ignored him. "You all need to stay out of sight and lay low for a little while," he continued, still talking rapidly and firmly, like one used to giving orders and being obeyed. "First, I need to make sure Allison is safe and find out how matters stand. After that, assuming I'm still alive, I will see what I can do for you. You'll need new identities and safe transport out of the country. I'll see what can be done about arraignments."

"Out of the _country_?" Scott questioned, sounding distinctly unhappy at what he was hearing. "For how long?"

"Possibly forever, if you don't want to be looking over your shoulder your whole life," Chris' response was not encouraging. "I'm sorry, Scott, but you have no idea the people you're dealing with and what they are capable of."

"I have a pretty good idea," Derek put in bitterly, no small hint of anger in the words. 

Scott was shaking his head. "But ... but my mom! I can't just ... and Allison!"

"I wish I had time for this, but right now I don't. We _need_ to keep this call as short as possible. I need you to just listen to me. Derek," Chris said tensely, "You understand what you're facing. Explain it to them. I can't begin to atone for what has been done, and I won't insult you with hollow apologies. I will do what I can for you, but I have to secure Allison first.  Being an Argent in no wise makes her safe. Trust me... blood is nothing but a curse in this family, and they are not hesitant to spill it." His tone had gone dark.

"I will be in touch again, sometime within the next three days," Chris continued. "I will call you, do not call me, Scott, are you calling from your phone?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any other phones you can use, unconnected with either you or Stiles?"

"No?" Scott looked questioningly at Derek and Stiles.

"We can get a burner tomorrow," Stiles suggested.

"Do that if you can," Chris agreed. "And send me a text so I have your new number. Pretend you're a sweepstakes and I might have won something, text Y to continue receiving messages, that kind of thing. If you _can't_ get a new phone, then hang onto Scott's, but whatever you do, _do not_ leave it turned on. They know who you are and tracking phones is easy. Even if you get a burner, only turn it on twice a day at pre-arranged times, and leave it on for no more than two minutes. If you don't hear from me during that time, turn it off again after the two minutes are up and wait until the next checkpoint. I will be using different phone numbers but I will not leave messages and I will not send texts. You are not to trust _anything_ unless you speak to me _personally_ and recognize my voice. Do you understand? This is important," Chris stressed that, but did not pause for an answer and instead kept speaking.

"If at _any_ time, I say that Allison says to tell Scott she loves him, that will be a sign that I've been compromised," he said grimly. "Either I'm either being forced to make the call, or I think someone is listening in on the conversation. Either way, you are to disregard _anything_ else I said, ditch the phone and head for whichever border you have the best chance of reaching. Neither Mexico or Canada will be safe in the long term, but you can use either of them as a jumping off point to somewhere else. If three days pass and you still haven't heard anything from me, then you need to do the same thing."

Despite his obvious haste, Chris sounded uncommonly calm and practical about everything. He sounded like someone with experience, and perhaps that, more than anything else, was what made the three young men on the other end of the line listen to the flow of instructions without interruption or objection.

"If the phone always goes on at the same time, they could notice the pattern and be waiting to trace it," Stiles now felt obliged to point out.

"Which is why we're not going to use a set time," Chris agreed. "Are you familiar with pi, in mathematics?" he didn't wait for an answer. "Use the numbers in pi as the pattern, moving back one place every time and alternating AM and PM. If you hit a number that doesn't work when corresponding to a time, like a 6-9 in the minute slot, just drop it down to a 5. Start with PM and ignore the initial 3 to make the pattern harder to recognize, so the first call is at 1:41 PM, the next is 4:15 AM..."

"And the next at 1:59 PM, yeah, got it," Stiles finished for him. "Okay, but ... my dad, and Scott's mom... if Kate knows who we are, does that mean our parents are in danger?" he asked, trying _very_ hard to keep his voice steady.

"Not _yet,_ " Chris hedged. "Allison's and my involvement has added some new complications to the situation. It's unlikely that Kate will make any drastic new moves until after I've spoken with her."

Stiles didn't seem to like the implication that it was only a matter of time until that state of affairs changed. "And _then_ what?  They're not a threat. They don't know anything!" he protested somewhat angrily.

"And I wish that mattered," Chris sounded suddenly weary. "But it doesn't. Given the chance, they will most likely seek to use your parents as leverage to get you out of hiding. Using those you love against you is a favorite tact of theirs," he said bluntly and there was no missing the thick note of bitterness and anger in his voice.  "But that only works _if_ they know how to get in touch with you to deliver the threat," he pointed out. "Blackmail is only effective if you can get the threat to its intended mark. That is why it is so important for you to not let yourselves be found. In the short term, as long as you stay out of sight, your parents should be safe."

"And in the long term?" Stiles prodded.

"I don't know, Stiles," Chris admitted quietly. "I told you, I will do everything I can, for you and for them. I never wanted any of you anywhere near this world. I never wanted _any_ of this. I know it doesn't mean anything, but I _am_ sorry. I'll be in touch. Don't forget what I told you." With that, he hung up.

Stiles, Derek and Scott just stood there looking at one another for a long moment, trying to digest everything that had just been said and its possible implications.  

A gust of wind blew in through one of the partially open windows across the room, making the plastic coverings around them sway and rustle softly and breaking the moment. 

Stiles took the phone from Scott, turned it off and disconnected the battery again. The dark room became even darker. "We should hurry, don't want to miss our ride." He glanced towards the windows, where the pale glow from the street lights outside now provided the only illumination.

"You want to do what he suggested, don't you?  You want to keep the checkpoints," Derek said quietly, very quietly in the darkness. "You want to trust him."

Stiles looked at him steadily amid the shifting, half shadows. "I want us to survive this, Derek. You, me, Scott. I want our parents to survive it too," he murmured, his voice catching. "I don't know about _trust,_ and I'm not thrilled at the idea of fleeing the country as a solution either ... but yeah, I want to keep the checkpoints and see what he comes back with, Derek. I want to see where this thread goes, because I think Mr. Argent was being as level as he could be with us, and mostly because we don't have a lot of other options. But ... I don't want to do it without you," he murmured, reaching out, groping for Derek in the shadows. "I know how much trusting an Argent cost you before, I know that." He had to stop and swallow, his eyes glistening in the faint, silvery light. "I won't ask you to risk doing that again, if you can't.  If you want to walk away, we'll... I'll... we'll figure something else out, somehow."

Scott shifted in the dimness beside Stiles. He seemed to want to say something, but judged it better to remain silent for the moment.

Derek knew Stiles meant what he said. He also knew that aside from whatever thin potential hope Chris was offering, there was almost no way they had even the slightest chance of protecting Stiles and Scott's families now that the boys had been identified. Derek had seen already seen Stiles' utter panic at the thought of losing his father. He'd known then that this time might come, and had already made his mind up about what he would do if and when it did. He wasn't going to force Stiles to make that choice, no matter the cost.

Reaching out, Derek caught Stiles' searching hand in the darkness and squeezed. "Let's keep the checkpoints," he said quietly. "At least for now. Play the hand and see where it leads."

"Okay," Stiles said, the soft note of relief in his voice the only thing Derek needed to sooth down the fear trying to knot his stomach. Stiles' hand squeezed his, holding on tightly.

"I agree too, in case anybody was wondering," Scott put in with wry mildness.

Stiles grinned and clapped him on the shoulder and even Derek smiled despite himself, the heavy pressure of the moment dissipating a little.

"Well, now that the unanimous vote is in, let's go before our trucker finishes up his pie."

* * *

 

Chris Argent pulled to a stop in front of the sprawling, sea-side mansion at the end of the long, secluded drive. He hadn't needed directions to find the place. He remembered it well enough. Growing up, his family had vacationed here multiple times. Gerard did not own the villa, but it was a vacation and rental property owned by one of the senator's many friends and his family had long been given unrestricted use of the property whenever they came to the West Coast.

Not all the memories Chris had of this place were good, but it was where he had fallen in love with the wild and beautiful California landscape as a boy, and was perhaps part of why he had chosen to return to this side of the country years later. He never thought he'd come back to this house again, not after everything that had happened, but life seemed determined to never work out the way he might hope.

It was almost 2AM in the morning and the carefully manicured lawn was draped in darkness, but there were plenty of lights on in the house. Chris picked out several sentries hidden in the shadows as he made his way up the path and he was sure there were others he could not see. Kate would not be taking any chances, not with him. She knew better.

The door wasn't locked and he didn't bother knocking. He stepped inside to find Kate and four men waiting for him. No doubt she had been aware of his approach since he turned in at the gate, if not before.

Dressed in a dark, sleeveless turtleneck and jeans, Kate lounged in the drawing room doorway, holding a whisky glass and watching as her men quickly and efficiently frisked her brother down in the foyer.

"Hello, Chris, it's been a while," she greeted with a smile that might have looked friendly under other circumstances. "You look like hell, want a drink?" she held up her glass and nodded her head back towards where Chris knew the liquor sideboard to be located in the drawing room.

"Hello, Kate. Wish I could say it was good to see you again," Chris returned much more icily. He shook his head at her offer, holding out his arms and offering no resistance to the expected search and no protest when the men relieved him of the Glock he wore in the shoulder holster under his jacket. 

Kate eyed the confiscated weapon, raising a wry eyebrow at Chris.

Chris gave her a half shrug. "Wouldn't want to show up underdressed," he said dryly. "Where's Allison?"

Kate took a long sip from her drink instead of responding, the ice clinking in her glass.  Turning, she disappeared into the drawing room.

Chris followed, battling down the tightness knotting in his gut. It was late, he was tired and not in the mood for his sister's games. One of the French doors leading out a large balcony was open, and Chris found Kate outside, standing in the moonlight by the railing overlooking the water far below.

The villa was situated at the top of a hill directly overhanging the ocean and the air was full of the soft, constant roar of the surf braking against the craggy cliffs all around them. The surrounding cliffs with their twisting pathways and trees and desolate, secretive beauty were nothing but dark shadows blotting out the stars in the darkness, but Chris could see them clearly in his mind's eye. The sound of the surf and the familiar scent of pine and salt sea brought with it a rush of half-forgotten recollections and sensations.

Kate turned and leaned her hips back against the railing, swirling the ice in her glass and fixing Chris with a look as if she knew what was going through his head.

"Brings back a lot of memories, doesn't it?" she murmured, her faint smirk making everything she said sound vaguely mocking. "All those summers boating, surfing... running off into the woods to get laid." She fixed him with a teasing grin.

"Where is Allison?" Chris repeated.

Kate sighed.  "You used to be a lot more fun, Chris. What happened to us?"

"I opened my eyes and took a good hard look in the mirror," Chris said flatly. "Allison, Kate. Now." His tone had lost all pretense of patience.

Kate rolled her eyes and tossed back the remainder of her drink, leaving the empty glass sitting carelessly atop the wide balcony railing. "You always did fixate on things and worry too much," she commented. "Remember that kid we used to play with when we came out here? What was his name...? Estoban? The gardener's kid, the one who was allergic to everything? You made such a fuss about him."

"Estefan," Chris corrected coldly. "His name was Estefan and yes, I remember him. I remember you goading him into stupid dares that landed him in the hospital full of bee stings. I remember that he was crazy about you, that you kissed him with a mouth full of peanut butter and that that time, the EMTs arrived too late. I _remember_ that Estefan's father wouldn't shut up and accept Dad's _sympathy_ gifts and that he ended up dead at the bottom of that cliff," he jerked his head towards the dark, distant shapes on their left. " _That's_ what _I_ remember, Kate." His voice was flat and dark.

"Poor man, so drunk he slipped right off the edge. Or maybe, he just couldn't take the loss," Kate said sarcastically, not even having the decency to look contrite. "Accidents _do_ happen. All the time." There was something in her tone that suggested she had had a reason for bringing up that particular memory, and that this was not idle conversation.

Chris' jaw tightened. "I'm not playing this game with you, Kate." He moved one simple, but meaningful step into his sister's personal space. "I want to see my daughter, _right now,_ or it will be your body they're scraping off the rocks down there," he murmured.

Kate smiled, seeming pleased rather than at all frightened. " _There_ you are, brother. That's the Chris I know. I was wondering where you've been hiding."  She lounged against the railing, openly daring him to try to follow up on his threat.  

Chris was not stupid enough to take her up on the invitation. He knew better than to move against Kate in a situation that she controlled. He knew better than to underestimate her and whatever tricks she undoubtedly had up her sleeve. Instead, he did the one thing that he knew would irritate her the most: nothing. He folded his arms and simply stood there in silence, watching her impassively and waiting her out.

Kate became bored with unsurprising swiftness. She sighed and pushed off from the railing. "We need to talk seriously, Chris. This is quite the mess we've got on our hands, here."

_"You should know,"_ Chris thought, but did not say, unwilling to engage her further until his more immediate concerns were dealt with. "Fine," he agreed instead. "We'll talk. _After_ I see Allison."

Kate made a face. "You really _do_ have a one-track mind, don't you?  Okay, fine, suit yourself. Come on." Gesturing for him to follow, she passed back into the drawing room and then out into the hall. "She's fine, by the way, so you can quit looking so constipated," Kate remarked as she led him up the stairs to the second floor.

Kate opened a door and ushered him inside, letting them both into one of the large, lavishly appointed second floor bedrooms. A man stood guard just inside the doorway, but Chris' gaze was immediately drawn to the opposite side of the room. Allison was sitting on the queen-sized bed with her back against the headboard. Her left wrist was handcuffed to the heavy wrought iron bed frame. One side of her face was bruised and her eye was swollen nearly shut. She had a split lip that had been neatly mended and a further assortment of hand-shaped bruises on the exposed flesh of the arm that was cuffed to the bed.

"Allison!" Chris was at her side in a few quick strides. Crouching by the bed, he cupped his baby's battered face gently in his palm. Allison allowed it, but did not lean into his touch as she might have done on previous occasions. Last week she would have pressed into him, unhesitatingly looking to him for safety and comfort after being hurt and frightened like this. Now, she sat still and wary, as if he were a stranger. There was a flare of relief in her eyes at seeing him, but there were a lot of other emotions there too. Her whole body was tense and her eyes were red-rimmed with both tears and exhaustion.

Soul deep pain and a hot, seething rage bubbled in Chris' chest, but he contained it, keeping his touch gentle as it left his little girl's face and shifted instead to her bound wrist.

"Was this really necessary?" he asked, turning to look at Kate with eyes that displayed every iota of how angry he was over his daughter's condition.

"Absolutely," Kate said flatly. "This one's quite the handful. We caught her trying to climb out the window earlier. You know what a nasty drop that would be. It's for her own protection," she said, choosing to answer solely about the restraints and blatantly ignoring the real source of her brother's anger.

"And I suppose _beating_ her was also for her protection?" Chris straightened up, fixing Kate with a lethally icy gaze.

"Nobody _beat_ her," Kate said in an annoyed, long-suffering tone as if her brother were whining over a hangnail. "She fought and had to be subdued. You've got a little wild cat under that pretty-girl exterior, Chris. A lot of spirit and ingenuity there. It's too bad you kept her isolated so long and let her end up on the wrong side of things. She _could_ be a real asset to the family, if you haven't already ruined her with your namby-pamby ways."

Chris scowled at her. Kate taking an _interest_ in Allison was the very last thing he wanted. She'd get her claws into his daughter over his dead body. Mindful that that was an entirely real possibility, he did not say or do any of the things flowing through his head. "I need to talk to her, Kate," he said instead. "She _has_ been isolated from all this. I need to explain, so she'll understand and there won't be any more trouble. Give us a few minutes alone." His gaze darted meaningfully from Kate to the man by the door. It wasn't a request.

Kate shrugged, seeming to have anticipated this demand. "I'm not going to unlock her, so don't bother asking, but fine, go ahead with the daddy daughter time. I'll be downstairs in the drawing room when you're done with your touching little reunion and ready to talk business."  Kate turned and headed for the door, gesturing the guard out with her. She paused in the doorway, looking back and fixing Chris with a cool, steady gaze.

"Oh, but Chris...?  Don't take too long and don't get any ideas. There'll be two guards outside the room, and this whole estate if fully covered, trust me. The cliffs around here are still dangerous and I'd hate for there to be any _more_ tragic accidents, you know?" With that, she left, shutting the door behind her.

The doors didn't lock from the outside, but it didn't matter, Chris knew there was no easy way out of this room by force and fighting would only put Allison in needless danger. Negotiation and nepotism was his best hope of saving his daughter and ensuring her future at this stage. Even if it cost him her love and whatever was left of his soul.

Allison was looking at him with her mother's serious, intense eyes when he turned back to her. She had turned to sit on the edge of the bed so she could face him, sliding her cuffed wrist along the bar until it met the bed post and would go no further.

Chris swallowed against the tenseness in his throat as he sat down on the bed next to her.  Allison was an intelligent, independent young woman. He knew that and was very proud of her... but he was a parent, and it was impossible to look at her and not see the baby who had latched onto his finger with a death grip as soon as she was placed in his arms, holding him like he belonged to her forever, and utterly changing his life simply by existing.

"Allison..." he wasn't sure where to start.

"Is Scott okay?" she interrupted him, her fist curling against her thigh with tense anxiety. "And Stiles and Derek? Are they okay?" her voice was hushed but intense.

"I don't know, baby," Chris returned, reaching out to stroke her face only to have her pull back from him. "I haven't talked to Kate yet, so right now you know more about it than I do." It was a necessary lie.

Fear flittered across Allison's features, draining what little color she had that wasn't bruising. He knew then that she was the one who had told the boys to call him, and was now busily assuming the worst about why they hadn't.

"I'm sorry, honey, I know this has all been a huge shock." Chris leaned in and hugged her, not allowing her to retreat this time.

Allison didn't struggle, but she was stiff and unresponsive in his embrace; tense with anger and worry and the gulf of confused mistrust that had suddenly opened up between them.  

With his face safely buried in Allison's hair and his mouth obscured, Chris whispered into her ear very, _very_ softly. "We're being watched. They're listening, so don't say anything. I talked to Scott and the others and they're all right."

Allison's breath hitched, but she obediently said nothing in response. After a few moments her body relaxed a little into Chris' embrace and she allowed herself to hug him back, holding on one-handed.  "Dad," she murmured hoarsely. Her breathing was rapid and forced and he felt her body shudder slightly against him, her only concessions to how overwhelmed and overwrought she must surely be feeling right now.

"Allison, I'm so sorry," he said, still soft but loud enough to be overheard this time. He was positive Kate had the room bugged and monitored. "Everything will be okay. I'll work this out. I won't let anything happen to you, I promise." He stroked her back gently and then let her go.

Allison's body language was a little more relaxed now, but she was still clearly upset, which was no surprise. She regarded him with some frustration, obviously brimming with questions but unsure if they were safe to ask.

"Allison, what happened? Why aren't you, Scott and Stiles at school? How did you get mixed up with Derek Hale?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Allison hesitated uncertainly, but he reached over and gave her free hand a little squeeze. "It's all right. I'm not upset. I just need to know the situation." He looked at her, willing her to understand that he meant it was all right for her to tell the story even with eavesdroppers.  Kate probably knew most of it already, and he needed to get a grip on what had been happening before facing her again. He trusted that Allison would edit out anything obviously unsafe for outside ears, now that she knew the situation.

Allison apparently got his silent message, because she told him the story, such as it was. She told him about a boy named Matt Daehler whom Chris quickly decided he would have liked to spend some quality time with in a dark alley.  She told him what Matt had done to Stiles and how he'd had to leave school. How Scott had had a vague but troubling phone call from Stiles and how they'd gotten worried and come looking for him when all subsequent attempts to reach him had failed.

According to Allison, they'd just met up with Stiles and his new friend Derek, and had only barely had time to hear what she had thought was a particularly wild story about Derek's history, when Kate and her people had shown up and they'd had to run away. She said Stiles had been badly hurt by Kate, and he and Derek were both so frightened, so convinced they were all going to die, and that's why she'd helped them try to escape. She claimed she had no idea how Stiles and Derek had met, or any details about anything that had happened with them since they had. That might be true, but Chris had a feeling she probably knew a little more than she wanted to let on, which was just as well under the current circumstances.

"Is it true?" Allison finally asked, looking at him with eyes that already knew the answer but were still illogically hoping for a denial. "Is it really true, dad? What happened to Hales?" She shook her head, her eyes glistening with un-spilled moisture. "Did you know?  Did... did Mom know?"

Chris resisted the urge to briefly press his eyes shut. He didn't deserve to run or to hide from this question. His hands were far too stained.  "Yes," he said quietly in answer to all of the above. "It's true, all of it, and it's just the tip of a very, very dark iceberg. I never wanted you to be a part of this world. I wanted no part of it myself, but you can't just stop being an Argent. It doesn't work that way," he said with no small amount of bitterness. He didn't care if Kate was listening in, because what he had to say was nothing she didn't already know. She was perfectly aware how he felt.

"I've done horrible things," he said honestly, because Allison deserved the truth, and at this point, it was all he had to give her. "Unforgiveable things that I can't take back or undo." Chris refrained from trying to offer her any kind of justification. There was none, he knew that. True, this birthright had been forced on him and for much of his early life he hadn't felt he'd had a choice, but that did not excuse the things he'd done, and the things he _hadn't_ done. 

"I always knew, deep down, that it was wrong," he continued quietly. "But I never really started questioning my life and the way I had been raised until I became a father myself. _You_ started changing me, Allison," he told her, unable to stop himself from reaching out and brushing a strand of hair back from her bruised face. At least she didn't flinch away this time, although that would probably change again soon enough.

"Your mother was a wonderful woman. She was strong, courageous and loving. I need you to know that about her. She loved you more than anything. She was a good person in a world that was anything but. It was our world, though, hers and mine. It was what we knew and we'd learned too well how to look the other way and accept all the little necessary evils, but then, there was suddenly this amazing, innocent little person in our lives. It didn't happen all at once, but I think we both felt the shift. What we could accept for ourselves, we couldn't imagine teaching you to tolerate. We knew we didn't want you in our world, and that forced me to reconsider my own position within it. I tried to protect you from my family and its secrets, Victoria and I both did. We never let you be alone with Kate or my father, and as long as you were a child, they both seemed content enough to let you remain in the dark until you would be old enough to understand and appreciate things.

"For a while, I thought I could use my position to do some good, and maybe that would be enough to somehow balance the scales. I tried to be the voice of moderation, tried to find alternate ways of dealing with things, less bloody ways ... but the Hales ... the Hales were the final straw. That was an unmitigated mess that should _never_ have happened." He shook his head, running one hand through his hair as he felt again the familiar stir of pain, horror and frustration that had weighed on him for all these years.

"I'm sorry to say I knew there was a hit order out on the parents. I liked them, but that didn't matter. They were a threat and that was simply the way things worked. I was appalled when I learned their youngest child had been killed with them, but was told it was accidental collateral damage," his gaze slid to fix on the wall behind Allison, unable to look at her as he continued. "I'm sure now that was a lie, and maybe I suspected as much at the time, but I was good at believing what I wanted to believe, and anyway, what was done was done. Only, that wasn't the end of it. The two remaining Hale siblings were in the wind and Kate and I were tasked with tracking them down."

Chris sighed heavily. "Ostensibly, our goal was to find them and convince them that it was in their best interests to leave the witness protection program and flee the country instead. Essentially, we were supposed to buy them off without them _realizing_ that's what we were doing, and thereby ensure that any second hand knowledge they might possess never became a problem. This story, I did believe. I _truly_ thought that that was what we were doing. I knew them. They were good kids who got dealt a rotten hand, and I thought if we could set them up nicely in some out of the way corner of the world with better lives than the crappy WitSec program could offer, then at least that was something. But of course, as you already know, that's now how things went down."

Chris did close his eyes finally, the memories of that night washing over him anew. His hands were not clean. He had killed and been involved in killing before, but up until that night it had always been some other thug with just as much blood on their hands. Some asshole who would have been just as happy to plug him first, and in most cases, had tried to do exactly that before he put them down. It didn't excuse it, perhaps, but he hadn't lost sleep over them. Not like Laura Hale.

He had never knowingly, actively been involved in the death of an innocent until that night. Mostly, he suspected now, because his father had carefully engineered things that way. He had known his son's temperament and been shrewd enough not to involve him in matters outside his comfort zone. He didn't need to, after all, he had Kate, who had always clearly been the heir apparent. It had taken Chris far too long to understand how carefully Gerard had sculpted his view of their family and operations, too long realize just what a master manipulator his father really was.  He still wasn't sure whether the situation with the Hales had been his father trying to nudge him out into deeper waters, or if it had in fact been all Kate's doing.

"Why you and Aunt Kate?" Allison interrupted his internal whirl of memory and supposition. "If Grandfather was in charge, why not just have some other random goons take care of everything? Why you?"

Chris' gaze refocused on her. It was a good question. Allison's eyes were haunted, but she was being remarkably collected and calm about everything. She looked exhausted, so she might simply be too tired to get very worked up, but his daughter was strong, he knew that. He hoped she was strong enough for what lay ahead.

"In part, because we knew the Hale kids. Not terribly well, but Kate and I knew them both socially before everything went bad. The idea was that they would be more likely to listen to us. Even more importantly though, it fell to us because it was a very delicate situation, and an important one. Kate and I didn't usually do ground work on jobs of that nature, or at least, I didn't," he corrected himself. "Kate was always very involved in all aspects of the organization, but that was her choice. With the Hales though, the situation was so potentially volatile that it needed to be handled by people who could be trusted implicitly.  Hired guns can be bought off by opposition factions, and Gerard had plenty of enemies who would have loved to find a way to use the Hales against him. That was the whole concern, really. Gerard was much more worried about keeping them out of his enemies' hands than he was about keeping them away from law enforcement."

"Kate made first contact. She lured them out by befriending Derek and pretending she wanted to help them. To be honest, I'm still not entirely sure whether the plan was always to kill them and I was intentionally left out of the loop, or if Kate took matters into her own hands and simply improvised her own more permanent solution to the problem when the opportunity arose. Either way, after that night ... I couldn't do it anymore.  I _knew_ them. They weren't faceless, meaningless people. They were kids, only a little older than you."  Chris shook his head again. To this day, he still sometimes had nightmares of Laura Hale lying dead on the ground, only when he blinked, it wasn't Laura anymore, it was Allison.

"You were a teenager by then, and I was getting more and more pressure to _bring you into the fold_. That was one thing I swore to myself I was never going to do, and after the Hales, I knew we couldn't go on as we were. I wasn't doing anybody any good. I was only fooling myself. I told Gerard that I was done, I wanted out. His secrets were safe, I promised him that. I couldn't be a part of it anymore, but Victoria and I would never say a thing. All we wanted was to be left alone and allowed to pretend he and Kate and the whole wretched business never existed.  He didn't want to let us go, but couldn't stop me without causing ... problems for himself."  Chris paused, hesitating only briefly before pushing on. It was time for it all to come out. He swallowed against the painful lump rising in his throat. Strange, how it could still effect him even after all this time.

"He couldn't stop me, but he made sure I understood _exactly_ what would happen if I ever did try to betray him. He had Victoria killed to send me that message, and made it clear that if I _ever_ stepped out of line, you'd be next."

Allison's eyes went wide and she recoiled involuntarily, as if she'd been slapped in the face. Horror washed over her face. "Oh my God, _Mom_..." she whispered, tears rising in her shocked eyes and slipping down her cheeks. She gripped her own thigh tightly, as if looking for an anchor. "If it wasn't a car accident, then how?  How did they...?" her voice was hoarse and lost, like she wasn't sure whether she honestly wanted to know, and yet needed to at the same time.

Chris hesitated. He'd intended to lie to her. Intended to tell her that her mother's brakes had simply been cut or something like that, but the words died on his lips as he met her swimming gaze. Right or wrong, he couldn't bring himself to lie about this. Maybe it was better for her to know the kind of people they were dealing with.   

"It was bad, honey," his voice caught unexpectedly and he coughed against the aching tension. "She was ... hurt, a lot. They took pictures, so I'd know exactly what they'd done. The supposed car accident hid the damage. I..." his voice cracked again and he swallowed, almost angry with himself that he was having so much trouble getting through this. "I didn't know until it was too late. I didn't see it coming in time. I should have, and I didn't. I didn't do enough, I didn't protect her and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, honey. I swore I would do better by you, that I'd keep you safe. I couldn't lose you too."  He turned away, quickly wiping his face and blinking his eyes, which stung with tears he'd never meant for Allison to see.

"The rest you already know," he finished, still looking away.  "We moved across the country and settled into a new life with as few ties as possible to the old one. Gerard and Kate kept making overtures to us, to you, mostly, but as long as I kept quiet and never interfered with their affairs, they seemed content to let us be.  I met new people, _good_ people, and became someone I actually _wanted_ to be for the first time in my life. I was foolish enough to think that I could actually escape and give you a better life, that the sins of his past would not catch up with us and ruin everything.  I guess I should have known better." He stared at his hands, lips twisting grimly into something that could never really be called a smile.

"There has to be something we can do?" Allison asked quietly, more question than statement. He could hear the tears in her voice, but couldn't look at her, not knowing what he had to say.

"The only thing we can do right now is try to work out a new arrangement. You were swept up in this with no knowledge of what it all meant, I have to make Kate and my father see that. They have to be made to understand that you aren't a threat. They may need certain assurances. Proofs of loyalty. I'll work that out."

" _What?_ " Allison retorted incredulously, her voice sharpening to anger. "What kind of _proofs?_ " Her tone suggested she could guess that they involved betraying her friends in ways she could not begin to contemplate. "No way! Dad, this is -"

" _Allison_ ," Chris snapped, his gaze shooting back to her with alarm. Gentling his voice, he reached out and took her hand earnestly between his. "Sweetheart, you don't understand. I'm going to need you to trust me. You can hate me, but I need you to trust me. I know you think this is all one big hideous wrong, and it _is,_ but it is not your responsibility to try and set it right -"

"Then whose?  Whose is it?" Allison argued.

"Not _yours_ ," Chris repeated firmly. "Getting yourself killed won't make _anything_ any better for _anyone_ else. I'm sorry. I hate this and I understand if you hate me, but I _will_ do whatever it takes to protect you. I've been dancing with the devil for years to ensure that, and even if you don't understand it now, this is merely a new chorus."

Allison shook her head. She pulled her hand away, shoving it agitatedly into her pocket. Her fist clenched as if gripping onto whatever she found inside. She was clearly shaken, but there was a determined gleam in her tear-wet eyes. "No, it's not," she whispered hoarsely. "Not for me. I understand the danger, Dad, I do, but there are some things that are just more important. There _have_ to be."

Chris could see in her eyes that she was afraid. She could not say it aloud because of potential listeners, but Allison was afraid she had misplaced her trust in him, that he would betray Scott and Stiles to protect her. He wished he could assure her otherwise, but the truth was that while it was the very last thing in the world he wanted or intended to do ... he knew he would, for her, if he had no choice.

"I don't hate you, Dad, I love you," she said quietly, startling him more than if she'd shouted and slapped him. "I love you, and I believe in you." Her gaze held his with heart-breaking, tearful intensity. There was trust there, he realized. So much undeserved trust. It felt like that little baby wrapping her fist around his finger all over again, claiming him and making him want to be whatever it was she somehow saw in him.

"You hate everything that happened, I can see that. You have a chance to make _new_ choices now, to be that person you want to be, like you said. It's who you _are_ , Dad, who you really are. We can make this right. Somehow, we _have_ to, don't you see? It doesn't matter what family you came from. I believe in _our_ family, the two of us. You always taught me to do what was right, to not put my own good before that of others. I don't believe that the father I know would tolerate letting innocent people get hurt."

They were still talking in careful generics, but they both knew what was being said.

Chris felt pained down to his core, because she was right, but the world was just so wrong that he wasn't sure it mattered, even though he _wanted_ it to matter so badly it hurt. "And what if they find Scott?" he asked quietly. "What price would you find yourself willing to pay for his life? What wouldn't you do to keep him from a slow, horrible death? What about Lydia and your other innocent friends who don't even know about any of this? You have to understand how these people work, Allison. If you defy them they will start killing the people you love one by one. Are you ready for that?"

Tears spilled down Allison's cheeks. She shook her head. "No," she rasped hoarsely. "No, I'm not."  She leaned forward into him, hugging him with her free arm and burrowing into him as if seeking comfort.

Chris wrapped his arms tightly around her, and felt her breath brush his neck below his ear, her words only barely audible. 

"I'm not going to lose anyone, because I'm not going to roll over and let them be taken," she hissed softly against his skin, her faint, hoarse whisper fiery with the flame of her determination. "Staying silent and playing their game didn't save Mom, did it? We let them keep taking and they will take it _all_. I'd rather fight and risk losing everything, than sit around in fear while it's taken away piece by piece." As she spoke, Chris felt Allison slide something into his jacket pocket.

Chris simply clutched her tighter to him, feeling so proud and so very afraid. Motion in his periphery vision made him look up to find Kate standing in the newly opened doorway.

"You about done, here? It's getting late and I'm getting tired," Kate said coolly. Chris wondered if that was really why she was here, or if she perhaps been concerned that Allison might in some way be getting to him with her rebellious talk.

He gave Allison another firm squeeze before reluctantly letting her go. He kissed her on the forehead as he rose. "I have to go speak with your Aunt, princess. I'll be back," he promised.

Allison nodded mutely.

Chris saw one of the guards outside step back into the room with her as he and Kate made their way back down the hall and his frown tightened. He didn't like being reminded of how vulnerable she was. How vulnerable she was always going to be, so long as his father and sister were calling the shots. Allison was right that he hadn't been able to protect Victoria. Would he really be able to do any better with her?

"How'd it go?" Kate asked casually as they made their way back down the stairs, as if she hadn't been listening to the whole thing.

"How do you _think_?" Chris said curtly. "This is a lot to take in all at once."

"Well that wouldn't be a problem if you hadn't kept her in the dark all these years. Ignoring the cold hard truth has never made it go away, no matter how much you would like to try."

"Kate, she's just a child..."

"We were all children once, Chris, and anyway, I hardly think you can call her that anymore. No, she's old enough to have to make choices now. I know you want to think I'm the bad guy here, but believe it or not I am on your side. I have been running interference for you since _princess_ up there popped up in the very wrong place at the very wrong time. You know how paranoid the old man is. He sees conspiracy theories everywhere and you have to admit that _your_ daughter suddenly chumming around with Derek Hale, the boy _you_ failed to kill, looks bad." She grinned mirthlessly. "Me? I don't think you're that interesting. I think this is exactly the stupidly dumb chance that it looks like on the label, but that isn't my call and you know it. You have enough problems on your hands without her getting a lot of dangerously stupid ideas. Do you  think you going to be able to talk sense into her, or not?"

Chris' jaw tightened fractionally. If he'd had any doubt about whether or not Kate had been listening in on them, it was gone now. Clearly, she had and was not trying very hard to hide it.

"Like I said, it's a lot to take in all at once, but Allison will be sensible once she understands things fully and has had a little time to adjust. I'll bring her around," he assured tersely, well aware of how bad things looked and how tenuous the situation was.

Kate fixed him with a knowing look as they re-entered the drawing room. "For your sake, I hope you believe that more than I do," she said as she poured herself a new drink.

She silently offered one to Chris, and this time he did not refuse. He sighed as he accepted the glass.  "A little incentive might be helpful," he admitted. "Allison's very in love with that boy, Scott. She'd do a lot in exchange for his safety."

Kate was smart enough to know when she was being maneuvered, but also seemed to expect it in this instance. "Maybe so, but then who is to make _him_ be sensible?"

Chris took a sip of the perfectly aged whiskey. It was too easy, too familiar having this kind of discussion with Kate. Combined with the familiar surroundings and the burn of the alcohol tracing down his throat, it made him feel unpleasantly like the past years had been nothing but a dream and he'd never escaped, never lived any other way.

"The boy doesn't really _know_ anything but wild stories and conjecture. I'd be very much surprised if any of them have any kind of proof of anything, even Hale, at this point," he reasoned, even though he knew that wasn't the problem. Kate liked to argue and she was always more amenable after feeling like she'd won a point. Give her something that was easy to shoot down and she'd be less inclined to find fault with following suggestions.

Predictably, Kate rolled her head and gestured in exaggerated disbelief. "Proof, schmoof! You know better than that, Chris. Don't tell me you've gotten soft _and_ stupid while you were out playing soccer dad in Mayberry.  _Nobody_ is worried about what could be proved in a court of law. By the time it got anywhere near that stage the damage would have already been done.  This is the internet age, brother dear. Controlling the media is not what it once was, and anyway, there are too many competing factions at cross purposes and too many people who would _love_ to hurt the old man.  This is an election year in case you hadn't noticed.  Certain stories get to the wrong ears, or into the wrong hands, and it could cause trouble."

Chris knew better than to argue the relatively small odds of that happening.  His father always said that when dealing with threats, the only odds he wanted to hear were _zero,_ and he had beaten that into his children quite thoroughly. 

Chris tossed back the rest of his drink in one go.  "Scott has a mother," he said quietly. "Whom he loves very much." 

Kate regarded him thoughtfully. "Yes, I'm aware," she said after a moment.  "Chris, I know where you're going with this, but I can't make any promises. This situation has gotten quite out of hand already and you know how the old man feels about unnecessary loose ends.  I know the way you like to operate - the deals, the leverage, the pressure points and counter-leverage ... but I have to warn you, father isn't going to be in a giving mood. This is a particularly bad time, even without the election stress," she warned him, her voice dipping into conspiratorial tones.

"The Calaveras are making a move and have carved some significant inroads into our operations. We lost almost half the Mexican trade last month and they're going hard after the Columbian corridor. You can bet we're fighting back, but the point is, they are poised to pounce on any possible weakness. Tell anybody I told you that and I'll cut your balls off," she warned with a pleasant smile, meaning every word. "But I think you need to understand the stakes here, Chris, and why there just cannot be _any_ liabilities tolerated right now. _I'm_ pretty damn sure that the Calaveras' haven't caught wind of our little Hale problem yet, but they would certainly exploit the hell out of it if they did and the old man..." she shook her head and gave him another dry smile. "Paranoid, remember?"

"Wonderful." Chris set his glass down on the sideboard, already wishing for another drink but knowing he needed to keep his head clear. He knew Kate was in fact trying to assist and protect him in her own way by giving him a full picture to work with. They had been close, once. It had never been a particularly normal or healthy relationship, but growing up like they did, sometimes it felt like all they really had was each other. He wasn't sure Kate had ever really forgiven him for getting married and moving out to start his own family. He wasn't sure he'd ever really forgiven himself for not trying harder to save her from their father, even if she hadn't seem to want to be saved. That was the most difficult thing about his whole screwed up family. He couldn't completely hate them all the time, even when he knew he should. He was too used to going along, to working within the system his father had created because that was the only way to be safe, a lesson which had been drilled into him, sometimes painfully so, from a very young age.

He slid his hands into his pockets and his fingers brushed against the shape of whatever it was that Allison had slipped him a few minutes ago. One touch, and he knew instantly what it was, and what message it was meant to convey.

" _Maybe,_ "Kate allowed slowly. " _Maybe,_ Allison's little boyfriend can be spared, but you'll need to talk to father about it when he gets in. He's on his way out right now, should be here any minute.  _That's_ how serious this is. You understand, now?"

Chris felt a sick little lurch in his stomach that was old, familiar, and very unwelcome; the one that had always accompanied knowledge of his father's imminent arrival and displeasure. It was amazing how the smallest things could make you feel nine years old again.

He nodded grimly, his fingers curling around the smooth, worn object in his pocket. "Yes," he said. "I understand perfectly."


End file.
